Page 45 of Last Hand

I drum my fingers on the map, focusing on the industrial district that borders our territory and that of the Seventh Street Gang—Diego Reyes’s crew. They’ve been a thorn in my side for years, constantly testing my borders, trying to siphon business.More importantly, they’ve had run-ins with Santos before—bad blood that goes back years.

“Get me a meeting with Reyes,” I say. “Tonight.”

Milo raises an eyebrow, the equivalent of shocked surprise from anyone else. “Reyes? He’s been trying to muscle in on the east side for months.”

“Exactly.” I fold the map precisely along its creases. “And he hates Santos almost as much as he wants what we have.”

Understanding dawns in Milo’s eyes. “You’re going to offer him the shipment.”

“I’m going to offer him the opportunity to steal it,” I correct. “With information that ensures he’ll be caught in the act; we won’t have to cross Santos, alliances remain safe, and we get rid of a mutual pain in the ass.”

Milo’s lips quirk, the closest he comes to a smile these days. “Elegant.”

“Set it up. Neutral ground. The old distillery on Canal Street.”

Four hours later, I’m sitting in the abandoned manager’s office of what was once the city’s premier bourbon distillery. The building still smells faintly of charred oak and fermented grain, though it’s been closed for a decade. Diego Reyes sits across from me, his muscled frame draped in designer clothes that try too hard—Versace belt, Gucci loafers, a diamond-encrusted watch that catches the light every time he moves and that stupid hat he has on backward like he is some prepubescent boy instead of a nearly thirty-year-old man.

Milo stands behind me, silent and watchful. Two of Reyes’s men flank him, trying to match Milo’s menace and falling short. They look like boys playing dress-up next to the real thing.

“I have to say, Leone, this invitation was… unexpected.” Reyes leans back in his chair, at first glance you would assume in arrogance, but his eyes are sharp, calculating. He’s smart enough to be suspicious of sudden overtures.

I offer him a thin smile. “Business makes for strange bedfellows.”

“And what business could you possibly have that would involve me?” He spreads his hands, gold rings glinting. “Last I checked, you made it clear the east side was off limits.”

“The east side is still off limits,” I reply coolly. “This is about Santos.”

At the mention of Santos’s name, Reyes’s expression hardens. Three years ago, Santos’s men executed Reyes’s cousin in a dispute over distribution rights. The body was returned in pieces.

“What about Santos?” His voice has lost its affected casualness.

I lean forward slightly. “He has a shipment coming in tomorrow night. Weapons, primarily, with a side of high-grade product. Enough to make it worth intercepting.”

Reyes narrows his eyes. “And you’re telling me this why? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

I allow myself a small laugh. “Let’s just say I have an interest in seeing this particular shipment… disrupted. And I can’t be connected to it.”

“So you want me to do your dirty work?” Reyes scoffs. Still, I can see the greed flickering in his eyes. “Why would I risk crossing the cartel?”

“Because you’ve wanted to hit Santos back for years,” I say simply. “And because the value of this shipment would transform your operation overnight.”

One of Reyes’s men shifts uncomfortably. The prospect of cartel retaliation clearly makes him nervous. Smarter than his boss.

“What’s the catch?” Reyes asks, dropping all pretense now. “You wouldn’t hand me this opportunity without something in it for you.”

“No catch. You get the shipment, I get deniability when certain parties ask why it never arrived.” I spread my hands. “We both get what we want.”

Reyes studies me, trying to find the lie. “And why should I trust that this isn’t a setup?”

I reach into my jacket and pull out a folded paper, sliding it across the table. “Dock number. Arrival time. Security rotations. Everything you need to make a clean hit, and I will keep Santos distracted.”

He unfolds the paper, eyes widening slightly at the details. It’s good information—accurate enough to get them to the right place at the right time, while missing the key detail that Santos’s men will be waiting for them.

“How do I know this is real?” he asks, tapping the paper.

“You don’t,” I reply bluntly. “That’s the nature of our business, isn’t it? Risk assessment. The question is: does the potential reward outweigh the risk?”

Reyes looks down at the paper again, greed warring with suspicion. Greed wins, as it almost always does with men like him.

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