Page 21 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

Making my way into the warehouse, I carefully ascend the rusty flight of stairs all the way to a makeshift gallery where I stand in the shadows, arms crossed.

Below me, crates are lined up neatly on pallets. I already know from my source that they contain pharmaceutical-grade chemicals.

My source had submitted details of all participants in this deal to me, and as they walk in one after the other, I make a mental note of them.

Christian Lorenzo, Enzo’s right-hand man, sits with a couple of guards flanking him on both sides, a glowing cigarette in hand.

There’s Matt Genon, their big-time supplier. One person isn’t here yet.

One of Rossi’s major buyers, Victor Hale. An American rat with nothing but money and loyalty, he laughs too loudly as he waltzes in, shaking hands with Lorenzo and slapping one of them on his shoulder like they’re friends instead of future allies.

That laugh echoes unpleasantly.

I catalog exits, the timings of their movements, guns, and the placement of every visible weapon; every man in the room is marked in my head within seconds.

If bullets fly, at least three would go down before they even draw. Hale might even survive it.

If this deal goes through, the Rossis expand west, and that can’t happen. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, my thumb already hovering.

For several weeks, Hale had been receiving anonymous texts from a supposedly interested buyer—someone who was willing to pay three times what he usually sold his stuff for.

This mysterious buyer pushed him to contact the one person fast gaining ground in the west: Enzo Marcini. Seeing as this business would be beneficial to both of them, Rossi and Hale decided to cast their disdain for each other aside and partner on this consignment.

Tonight, the first shipment from Rossi’s supplier landed, and they’re both here to inspect it.

Greed is the easiest language to speak fluently to men like them.

What they don’t know is that their big buyer is me, and tonight, that deal comes to an end. My thumbs touch my keypad as I send a text from another anonymous number. The shipment has been contaminated. Rossi plans to double-cross you. Pull out now or lose everything.

Heads are sure to roll tonight. And I just can’t wait.

Hale’s phone buzzes. I watch his smile die in real time, bringing mine alive.

He steps aside, brows knitting as he scrolls. He looks up sharply, eyes scanning the room like prey that finally smells blood. He whispers to his second-in-command, and he stiffens.

I’m loving this. If Hale takes the bait, that’s about a hundred million in loss for Enzo Marcini. And this is only the beginning.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Lorenzo. Your stuff isn’t pure,” he announces confidently. I know Hale has never trusted the Rossis, that’s why I sowed the doubt from his end.

“This is bullshit,” one of the Rossi men snaps as Hale starts backing away.

Hale shakes his head, already pulling off his glove. “You didn’t tell me about contaminants.”

“There are none,” he insists. “This deal is solid.”

Matt steps forward, eyes fixated on Hale as he grabs one of the jars in the middle of the room. “I supplied and sealed this off myself. You can taste it.”

Hale bares his teeth with a forced grin. Reaching his little finger into the lid of the jar, he takes one last glance at Lorenzo before dipping it in.

The smell of sizzling flesh fills the room at once. Hale’s yelp tears across the dense silence. His men reach for their guns immediately, firing at Matt first, then turning on Lorenzo and his men.

“Fucking Italians!!” Hale screams, holding his burning pinkie. It was a great idea to replace their stuff with low-grade acid.

Laughter almost tears past my throat.

I’ve been studying the key men for weeks — the supplier, the handlers, the drivers. Patterns never lie.

The driver’s route hasn’t changed in years. Same highway. Same timing. Same coffee stop just outside the city, where he kills fifteen minutes and trusts that sealed jars mean safety.