The city didn't mourn the Mercato Del Muerte.
It adapted.
By the third day, black-market routes had rerouted like blood finding new veins. Old suppliers resurfaced with new masks. Smaller syndicates flexed, testing the silence left behind by the fire. And above it all, rumors thickened—some said Matthew had burned his own kingdom. Others whispered that a ghost had done it for him.
Matthew listened to all of it and said nothing.
He stood in the lower war room of the mansion, sleeves rolled up, hands braced on the table as holographic maps flickered to life. Rafe had rebuilt the network fast—too fast for comfort—which meant someone else had been feeding him intel.
That alone set Matthew's teeth on edge.
"Two shipments intercepted last night," Rafe said, voice calm but eyes sharp. "Different crews. Same destination."
"Which is?" Matthew asked.
Rafe zoomed the map. A red pin pulsed near the docks. "Here. Warehouse registered to a shell that doesn't exist anymore."
