Page 4 of Corrupting Camille
At the bar, my drink’s already waiting. Macallan 18. No garnish. No ice. Just the bite. The bartender nods, doesn’t speak. Smart.
I cut through the crowd, and they part, not because they know me, but because some part of them feels me. They don’t know what I am, but their bodies do.
I take my place in the shadowed corner of the lounge. Leather chair. Eyes on the exit. Walls at my back. It's the only way I sit.
I drag a hand down my face like I’m wiping off the last week.
Miami was a mess.
Always is. But this time?
This time, it nearly cracked.
Álvaro dropped the ball. Or someone did. A shipment I personally signed off on disappeared before I even landed in New York. Gone.
And in my world?
That doesn’t fucking happen.
Not with that much product.
Not with my name stamped across the manifest.
Not when blood is currency and silence is law.
New York is mine. The Langford is mine. Every account, every ghost company, every penny washed clean through ten layers of shell corporations, I built here. I buried the past here.
But Miami?
Miami is the heartbeat of my empire.
That’s where the product moves.
That’s where the bodies work.
That’s where the blood stays fresh.
And when something threatens that? When someone thinks they can steal from me?
I don’t delegate.
I don’t warn.
I don’t negotiate.
I kill.
I’m back in New York before my enemies even know I left.
But Miami? That fire’s still burning.
Álvaro says it was the feds. I say it was a leak.
Someone whispered in the wrong ear. Someone who thought I wouldn’t notice.
They were wrong.
Trust is like breath in my world, precious, fleeting, and once it’s gone, you’re already dead. Álvaro’s been with me seven years. Loyal. Solid. Swears he didn’t fold.
