The rain had stopped, but the world still smelled like smoke.
Matthew stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking what used to be the Mercato Del Muerte. From above, the ruins looked almost peaceful—blackened steel ribs jutting from ash, water pooled in shallow craters, steam rising lazily as if the place were exhaling its final breath.
It was gone.
Not hidden. Not buried.
Gone.
For years, the Mercato had been the beating heart of the underworld—money, weapons, bodies, secrets flowing through it like blood. Entire empires had been built inside its walls. Entire lives destroyed.
And now it was nothing but a scar.
Matthew should have felt victorious.
Instead, he felt hollow.
Behind him, boots crunched softly against gravel.
"You're going to stare it into existence again if you keep doing that," Rafe said, lighting a cigarette despite the damp air.
Matthew didn't turn. "I'm not trying to bring it back."
"Good," Rafe replied. "Because something worse will take its place."
