Chapter 33 : 𝕭𝖆𝖇𝖞𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖕𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑

𝕸𝖆𝖋𝖎𝖆'𝖘 𝕹𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖘

Breanna’s fingers stop mid-stir, the spoon clinking once against the mug.

She didn't jump in to force the full story out, instead she had her back to them, but her ears were sharper now.

“No way. Grinch Hernández ? Mr Hunt’s right hand man?” The second staff cut in. Disbelief.

“Swear on my badge—my cousin’s a medic at Eden—he said Mr Hunt wheeled him in, like a gutted deer, bleeding out all over those white tiles and barely breathing.” The first man snarled, buttressing his claim.

The second agent gives a low whistle

“Shit... If Grinch is bleeding out in a backroom, what does that say about Hunt’s inner circle—that guy is the core of their strength?”

“Exactly. It’s weird, though. No cops—or official complaint of hit, no ambulance nor press. Just Antonio’s private suits, with silencers tucked under their coats.” The first man expressed his point.

“Grinch’s too protected for this to be street-level” The second agent shook his head. He leaned in and pulled his colleague closer.

“Roman!” He called in a raspy manner.

“This is definitely not a hit. It's a culling—either he stepped on the wrong toes, or someone finally got tired of cleaning his mess.....Like someone inside saying— enough.”

Breanna closes the coffee tin. Quietly. The air has shifted now—thicker, she couldn't hear their whispers.

The first man let out a chuckle and pulled away.

“Man you're overthinking it—It could be a rival fight. The Hunts are getting attacked these days.....months ago was their Casino”.

“Argh!—why are you so dumb.” The second growled, yanking his cards onto the table.

“Grinch is Antonio Hunt’s right-hand man, meaning he's heavily protected after Antonio. You think that level of blood gets spilled in a random rivalry fight—without a counter bloodbath from the Hunt Corporations?”

Roman's thoughts immediately wandered off. “You got a hell of point there—”

Breanna slowly emerges from the other side of the partition, and the room goes still.

With mug in hand, her gaze pinned them both, like knives through silk.

“Is your source legitimate?”

“Apologies, ma’am. Uh—we were just—”

“I asked you a question”. Her voice dropped eerily. “Where did you hear that—about Grinch?”

“Umm...my cousin, ma’am.” The first man stuttered.

“How sure are you that the information is true?” she snarled, taking a sip of coffee.

“Actually he’s a nurse. He recognized Grinch, due to he's an influential figure. Said he was wheeled into Eden this morning, by Mr Hunt and their private security wing”.

Breanna walks over, precise—like a menacing predator.

“Did you report this up the chain—your superior?”

The two men froze, unsure of what to reply.

Agitated Breanna tosses the rest of her coffee into the sink with a harsh splash and glared dangerously at them.

“No, ma’am—we didn’t” They shrink back a little. “We figured it was—”

“You didn’t” she interjected sharply, and paused with a smug grin.

“Such an insulated figure is bleeding out in our city's elite hospital, and you figured it to be a casual talk?”

“Sorry Ma'am” the two chorused with a bow.

“Nonsense” Breanna scoffs, grazing over them with detest.

“Funny—how long I've worked with this wing, yet you don't realize just how much I hate unsanctioned intakes. No repetition.”

“Yes Ma'am—apologies”. The men immediately splinter into different directions.

Breanna's eyes already on her watch—burned with a look her person can't define. “F*ck—It's only two hours to the STING”.

She dashed her eyes back at the doorway, eyes scanning. Jaw tense—mind contemplating.

This wasn’t just an attack. It was a message—someone opened the cage from the inside, and it's her only opportunity to manipulate the weak line.

The world outside is a stretch of storm-soaked glass, hinting that night was about to fall.

Patting her pocket was all it took for her to head toward the elevator—her phone was safe in her pocket.

The only weapon which she could use to control her force.

☆☆ 𝕷𝖆 𝕾𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆 𝕳𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖑

𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝕷𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖌𝖊 — 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌☆☆

6:00 PM

The velvet curtains shimmered under the golden chandeliers, casting soft pools of light across the obsidian floors.

Antonio lounged deep into the head seat of a high-backed armchair, legs crossed, a lowball glass of aged scotch in hand, untouched.

Flanked on both sides by arm dealers— criminal brokers from Arab, with their Consiglieres.

The scent of expensive cologne mingled with cigar smoke and polished leather — luxury cloaked in danger.

They two brokers argued over territory gains on the east docks.

Kiktor—Victor Loa's Consigliere, skimmed through the shipment manifests on his tablet.

The ashtray in front of them overflowed with half-burnt Cubans.

This wasn’t a meeting — it was a council of chaos, wrapped in silk and steel.

They’d flown in to wine and dine with the Medina family underboss. Deals were expected—just like they informed the Don.

Cesar Maté cracked a joke that sent a ripple of laughter across the room from his territorial bloodline.

“—so the bastard made away with a duffel full of cash,” chortled Cesar Maté, his thick Arabic accent slicing through the air, “but instead of weapons, we gave him a box full of dildos. Custom-made. Real top shelf.”

“Good riddance—that's what he deserves when he plays Craigslist,” drawled Victor Loa, swirling bourbon in a thick crystal tumbler, rings clinking.

“Last month, some idiot in Juárez thought a safety latch was optional when he pulled a fast one. Blew his trigger finger clean off.” He mimicked the boom with a pop of his lips.

“Can't even hold a toothbrush now—did you spare your own bastard just like that?”

There was a swift round of wheezing cackle from Cesar Maté, that nearly spilled his martini.

“That's the best part” he chimed in, gulping his drink.

“Swear to God, I still got a piece of that rookie’s femur in my jeep’s floorboard!”

Roars exploded from the two men. The laughter was loud, the whiskey rough, and the jokes even brutal.

Antonio forced a chuckle—fingers drumming the rim of his glass. He hadn’t taken a sip.

He looked like he belonged. Dark tailored suit, gold watch glinting, his tie loosened just enough to blend in with the chaos. But his eyes were miles away—Grinch!

“So, Capo mio!” Victor Loa called, turning to Antonio. "Any ideas?".

Antonio smiled and just nodded like a man listening to ghosts.

“You alright, Bruno{Gangster tough guy}?” Cesar Maté drawled, flicking ash into a gold-plated tray. “You look like a priest in a strip club.”

Antonio blinked away the haze, realizing he hadn't responded to the last thing said. He straightened slightly, throwing them a practiced grin.

“Just thinking. Nothing to lose sleep over.”

Cesar and Victor exchange a wild grin because Antonio was only keeping the illusion alive. But inside, he wasn't here.

“You always this stiff—wonder how you made it to Lucas' Underboss?” Victor teased, eyes sharp despite the casual slouch.

Antonio shifted in his seat, resting his elbow on the leather armrest, setting his untouched glass aside.

“Business and bleeding heart” Antonio corrected threateningly—nonchalant. Kiktor flashed him a stiff smirk and continued what he was doing.

“Oh right,”

The two men nodded, momentarily sobered by his tone.

“So where are we?” He asked, rubbing his neck.

“word is your Don's cooking something big — maybe cartel-cleansing big. You in, or are you still babysitting hotels and casinos?”

Antonio smirked. “Babysitting pays well, and that's the only reason I didn’t poison your martini.”

Victor tried to fire back, but Antonio's crooked smile made his resolve falter—he just lowered his glass.

With no further objection, Antonio exhaled, slowly pushing to his feet. His chair scraped back with a long screech.

“Listen,” he barked in a single order, fixing his coat with a precise tug.

“You all enjoy the rest of the evening without me—the drinks are on the Don.” His gaze scanned them, but no one dared to question him.

“If you would excuse me, I’ve got somewhere else I need to be.” He muttered, already turning.

“You bouncing already?” Cardoza—Cesar Maté Consigliere spoke his first word, since they got hosted in the room.

Antonio paused, then nodded once. Cardoza was one tough, invincible shield in Cesar Maté territory.

“Bruno{Gangster tough guy} we just lit the fuse—the room ain’t gonna be the same without you, moreover your Don said you gonna handle this deal yourself. Did the plan change?”

He stood abruptly and approached Antonio. "Or, you gotta go tuck someone in?"

“Cardoza!My boys will handle everything.” Antonio cut across the Consigliere's low murmur. “I'm a busy man”.

“Yeah—I almost forgot" Cardoza gave a stiff smirk, staring squarely at Antonio.

“But Don gave his word on this deal, and that's all that matters—El Juramento del Don {Don's Oath}.”

Antonio took a deep breath and nodded. “I will finish my work and get back to sign the deal”

In their world, whenever the Don promised, it was gospel—diplomacy.

Cardoza nodded in satisfaction. He however raised a brow, narrowing slits at Antonio's untouched drink.

Antonio offered a lopsided smile. “Aw, c’mon, we were just making jokes—I'd never think of that.”

“Your heart or brain, you mean,” Cardoza teased, lifting the glass. “Last time I checked—the heart of a gangster is a weave of sins, I won't be surprised by the brain”

Without objection, Antonio grabbed the glass and gulped down its content at a go.

“Satisfied?” He scowled, tossing the glass behind him.

“Not really” Cardoza watched as the glass shattered on the floor tiles. “Tell Grinch I said ‘heal fast’.”

Antonio gave him a suspicious look, but then walked out, the heavy doors to the lounge closing behind him with a soft but final thud.

Inside, the two dealers returned to their rumbling chatter.

Their voices clashed like brass knuckles, as they commended Cardoza for cajoling Antonio into drinking his Scotch.

Only once Antonio was inside his car, did he let his mask slip.

“Keep an eye on them” he instructed Reza, his substitute man.