The guy from the bar

Ninety

Jason's POV

"How did it go last night?" Zayn greeted me as I stepped into the meeting room. We had a mission tonight, one that could finally give us a lead on whoever's been sabotaging my business. For months now, clients have been dropping off like flies, spooked by something—or someone.

Over the years, I've built the best import and export trade network in Italy. I'm not about to let anyone take that away from me.

"It went well," I replied, shrugging off my jacket. "Let's just say I'm finally fixing my marriage—making it what it's supposed to be. I can replace that crappy cell-block proposal with a proper one."

"And what's up with the detective?" he asked, his tone shifting.

I paused for a moment. I had mentioned the situation to him before, just in case it escalates. We'd agreed—if we were going to have each other's backs, there couldn't be any secrets between us. We weren't just running a gang anymore—we were running a business. A damn good one.

"We still don't know much," I admitted. "He hasn't contacted her again."

"You sure?" Zayn leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised.

He didn't trust Madison, not completely. He thought she was reckless for sharing details about me with anyone. I'd been thinking about arranging a meeting between them—maybe lunch or something—to help them bond. But for now, I just sighed.

"I'm sure," I said firmly, though his doubt lingered in the air between us.

"Still," he said after a moment, "we've gotta prep her for when she gets back. She can't stay away too long, or they'll start thinking she's hiding something. And if they think she's hiding something..."

"They'll come after her," I finished. I didn't want Mads getting in trouble with the law because of me, she's already had enough to deal with it, so I guess I'll have to get her ready for whatever tricks they may play on her. They could make her life a living hell for knowing me.

Zayn nodded, his expression grim.
"You ready for tonight?" he asked, his voice lighter now, but his eyes were sharp.

"Always," I said.

Tonight wasn't just about finding answers. It was about sending a message. Whoever thought they could mess with me, with us, was about to learn that some ghosts don't stay buried.

The plan was simple on paper: infiltrate the warehouse, catch whoever's been rerouting my shipments, and send a message. But nothing in this line of work ever went as planned.

The warehouse sat just outside Florence, isolated on the edge of a rundown industrial park. It was one of my old drop points, a place I once trusted with high-value shipments. Now, it was a liability—a weak link in the chain I'd spent years fortifying.

Zayn pulled up a map on the table, the blueprints of the warehouse glowing under the dim light.

"There are three entrances," he said, pointing. "Front, back, and a side door that leads to the offices. We'll split into two teams—you take the offices, and I'll cover the loading docks. If someone's in there, they won't be walking out."

"And if it's empty?" I asked.

"Then we'll know they're onto us," he replied. "But I don't think it'll be empty. We've got a rat, and rats always leave a trail."

He was right. Someone on the inside was feeding information to our enemies. The sabotage wasn't random—it was precise, calculated. Whoever it was knew how I operated, and that meant they were close.