The study was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. Darren sat behind his desk, fingers drumming against the leather surface, his expression carved from stone. The night skyline stretched across the windows, neon pulsing in the distance — a city alive and hungry.
But inside, the air was still. Heavy. Waiting.
Mateo entered without knocking. He never had to. His face was drawn, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows as though he had run out of patience hours ago. He carried a folder, the edges bent as if it had been gripped too tightly.
Darren didn't look up immediately. He let the silence stretch, testing his second-in-command the way he tested everyone. Finally, he spoke, his tone low and measured.
"Tell me."
Mateo set the folder down, flipping it open. Inside were a few blurred photos, a name scrawled on the margin, and nothing more. Too little for the kind of operation Mateo usually ran.
"We found the middleman," Mateo said, his accent rougher when he was tired. "Name's Victor Salas. Small-time hustler, liked to play both sides. He was supposed to connect the thief to whoever backed him."
"Supposed to?" Darren's eyes lifted, sharp.
Mateo's jaw flexed. "He's dead. Two bullets to the chest. Dumped in a parking lot near the edge of the Strip. No cash on him, no phone. Clean job."
The words hung in the air. Darren leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His expression gave nothing away, but his pulse shifted, steady and heavy, like a drumbeat in the dark.
"Dead men don't talk," Darren murmured. "Convenient."
Mateo nodded. "Too convenient. Whoever's behind this didn't want him opening his mouth. They're cleaning up the trail."
For a long moment, Darren said nothing. He stared at the photos — at the empty eyes of a man who should have been his next breadcrumb. A corpse wasn't information. A corpse was silence.
Mateo shifted his weight. "This doesn't feel like a smash-and-grab anymore. Whoever wanted that money gone, they wanted us chasing ghosts. This—" he tapped the folder, "—this is a message."
Darren's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm, almost casual. "Messages I understand. It's the language of this city."
He rose from his chair, moving to the window. The Vegas lights bled into the night, gaudy and endless. Casinos glimmered like gold, promises wrapped in neon lies. His empire. His throne. And someone had just spit on it.
"Petty thieves don't clean up their mess," Darren said quietly. "Petty thieves don't cover their tracks with corpses."
He turned back, and his eyes, dark and fathomless, locked on Mateo. "This wasn't about money. The money was bait."
Mateo inclined his head. "Agreed."
The words didn't sting — nothing stung Darren. But they cut, in the way truth always did. He didn't tolerate tests. His entire empire had been built on the certainty that Darren Cruz Delgado was not a man you tested.
He paced slowly, his boots echoing against the polished floor. "Victor Salas was no mastermind. He was a pawn. Disposable. Which means…" His voice trailed, then hardened. "Which means someone is watching. Measuring. They want to see how far I'll go."
Mateo folded his arms. "And?"
Darren stopped pacing. A faint smile curved his lips, humorless and cold. "Then we show them."
The air between them thickened. Darren didn't need to shout. His calm was the kind that unsettled men more than rage ever could.
Mateo hesitated. "You think it's internal? Someone close?"
Darren's gaze flicked to him, unreadable. Trust was rare in his world. Trust was a loaded gun you handed to someone else, hoping they didn't pull the trigger on you. Mateo had earned his place at Darren's side through loyalty and fire, but suspicion was a shadow that never disappeared.
Finally, Darren shook his head once. "Not yet. If it were internal, they wouldn't need theatrics. They'd cut deeper, faster. This… this is someone circling. Someone who wants me to feel the air tighten before they strike."
Mateo exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. A small reprieve. For now.
Darren crossed back to the desk, picked up the folder, and flicked through the sparse pages. Dead man, dead lead, and nothing else. His empire was too big, too loud, to be shaken by scraps like this. But still — he felt the ripple. The whisper.
On the casino floor, gamblers would already be murmuring. Staff would already be guessing. Rumors were currency in this city, and his enemies had just made an investment.
He dropped the folder back on the desk. "Burn it."
Mateo blinked. "The file?"
"The corpse is already ash," Darren said flatly. "We won't give them the satisfaction of knowing we chase ghosts. Let them think I'm not bothered. Let them think I'm blind." His lips curved, sharper now. "When in truth, I'll be watching every corner."
Mateo gave a grim nod. "Understood."
Silence fell again, punctuated only by the distant throb of Vegas outside the window. Darren poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light then sat down.
Mateo cleared his throat. "There's one more thing."
Darren's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
Mateo hesitated. Just long enough to make Darren's brows lift.
"You're not a man who hesitates, Mateo," Darren said, his tone even. "Spit it out."
Mateo's jaw flexed. "Our men in San Francisco reported that five minutes after Ophelia was taken from her father's house…masked men raided it."
For a heartbeat, the words hung suspended in the air like smoke. Then Darren laughed, short, sharp, incredulous. He rose to his feet in one fluid movement, chair scraping back against the polished floor. "You've got to be kidding me."
"I wish I was." Mateo's voice didn't shift. "They moved fast. Surgical. In and out in under ten minutes. Our men said it was chaos—windows shattered, doors broken in, everything ripped apart. They were looking for her."
Darren lifted the glass, stared into the amber liquid, then set it back down untouched. "Describe them."
Mateo shook his head. "No markings. No colors. All black, masked. Professional. Military precision. That's not how loan sharks work. This was cleaner."
Silence stretched long, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. Darren stood motionless, gaze fixed on the windows as though he could see the shadow of those masked men bleeding into the neon glow of the city.
Finally, his voice cut through, low and lethal. "So. Someone else is hunting her."
Mateo's jaw flexed. "Looks that way. Which means the tip off were right. If you hadn't moved her when you did—"
"She'd be gone," Darren finished, his tone low and edged like a blade.
The air between them thickened. Darren's mind raced, piecing it together. He had enemies—dozens, some bold, some hidden—but none of them should have cared about a girl like Ophelia Smith.
"There's more." Mateo's eyes flickered, cautious. "I didn't want to drop it all at once."
Darren leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossing, his body a coiled spring. "Then do it quickly, so I don't put a bullet in your head for keeping me waiting."
Mateo didn't flinch. "The masked men—they weren't the only ones that sniffed around that night. Word is, the loan shark's people hit the property. Different timing. They were looking for her too."
The study's silence deepened, heavier, thicker. Darren's gaze sharpened, every line of his body taut.
"So." His voice was soft, deadly. "Two hunters. One girl."
Mateo nodded once.
Darren's fingers drummed against the wood. His mind raced, mapping the board. On one side, the loan shark—predictable, greedy, tied to Ophelia's stepmother. On the other, a phantom enemy. Organized. Professional. Patient. Two separate threats, converging on the same girl.
His lips curved into a humorless smile. "First, they come for my money. Now, they circle around a girl I barely touched. They're not just after her—they're after me."
Mateo shifted, uncomfortable. "But she doesn't know that."
"And she won't," Darren snapped. Then his voice dropped to a quiet, deadly certainty. "Ophelia thinks she's here because of her stepmother's debts. Let her keep believing that. The softer the cage, the longer she stays inside it."
Mateo inclined his head but didn't miss the steel in Darren's tone. This wasn't just business anymore.
Darren returned to the window, watching the city sprawl beneath him, the neon glow casting firelight against his features. He set his hands on the glass, voice dropping into something darker.
"They made their move. Now I'll make mine. Find out who sent those men. I don't care if you have to bleed half this city to do it."
Mateo's reply was steady. "Consider it done."
Darren turned, eyes burning, a promise etched into every word.
"If they want her, they'll have to go through me. And I don't lose."