The Mercato Del Muerte had never been loud when it was dying.
That was the mistake everyone made.
They expected chaos to announce itself with gunfire, blood, alarms. But real collapse—true rot—started with silence. With meetings that ended too quickly. With men who stopped making eye contact. With routes that went dark for seconds longer than usual.
Matthew felt it before he saw it.
He stood alone in the observation room overlooking the lower command floor, hands clasped behind his back, watching his empire breathe. Screens pulsed with live feeds: ports, airstrips, ledgers, movements. Everything was functioning.
That was the problem.
"Too clean," he muttered.
Behind him, Ezra leaned against the glass wall, arms crossed. "You're not paranoid enough."
Matthew didn't turn. "You don't get paid to scare me."
Ezra smirked. "Then you should fire me."
A red icon flickered on one of the monitors—gone almost instantly.
Matthew's eyes sharpened. "Pause that."
