𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 38 : 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧-𝐮𝐩............

𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬***

“Page twenty-three—signed by ‘M,’” Antonio tapped a page in the ledger. Voice outrightly composed.

“Shipment through Matamoros. You owed me thirty on arrival, but you wired twenty-five.”

Victor and Cesar bent over, staring at their own ledger—a thick, grimy book with handwritten entries, inked in red and black.

“Shipment 0131-L. We received twenty-five of that order—nothing more.” Victor jabbed their page, while Cesar nodded in rhythm.

“What do you mean?” Antonio curled a brow in confusion.

He skeptically cross-checked his ledger, and tilted his head in disapproval.

“This book is my Bible” he taps on the open page, eyeing them squarely.

“Whatever is in it…is my commitment. Crossed number means paid. Blank space means debt—someone still owes. Five crates are blank.”

Kiktor—Victor Loa's Consigliere—leaned forward, and accessed Antonio's ledger.

“Boss” he called Victor—accent unmistakable. Arabic.

Victor Loa cocked an eye at him and he continued.

“Medina’s house record, hints thirty. But then—anonymous five. We never got five crates.”

“That’s what we’re saying—an internal screw-up” Victor growled.

“You know how the game goes, just write the shit off—.” he was now referring to Antonio

“That’s charity” Antonio forbears the demand. “If I wanted to f*ck around, I’d just manage hotels.”

His once measured voice drops an octave, cold and flat.

“Thirty crates left my hands. Full. Tagged. You received twenty-five. Not my problem if five grew legs and walked off—Your losses aren’t my write-offs.”

“Bruno (Enforcer)… we ain’t trying to rip you,” Cesar wheedled, voice low but too slick. “We just want the numbers to reflect what actually got to us—moreover five crates is nothing, come—.”

“Over fifty million in merchandise?” Antonio countered calmly. “I’m sorry partner, but there’s a workaround here…and that, I can't give in to.”

The steel door opened. Rafael Mendez entered—sleek suit, tie ironed.

“Good-evening, Gentlemen,” he rasped in english—his breath a mix of hazelnut and whiskey.

“Sorry I’m late—I encountered some delay at the entrance.”

Silence followed his excuse.

Reputed in their world for his lateness, yet the most efficient among lawyers.

Getting no response or rebuke, just as it always used to be, He laid out his briefcase on the table.

A few papers slid out, and he arranged them, setting aside a new draft contract.

“So—are we balancing?” he asked.

“Mendez—I want the ledger from the last transaction”. Antonio's gaze ignited, lethal.

Without wasting a beat, Rafael pulled out a folded chart—polish and official-looking.

Then he singled out a wax-stamped export manifesto, from the previous transaction.

“Didn't the old deal close—”.

“Cross-check the two accounts with yours. Let's see who owes who?” Antonio interjected, sliding his own ledger forward.

Rafael Mendez adjusted his glasses, finger hovering over the now three ledgers.

Scribbles, alias names, offshore dump points, he checked everything.

“Thirty crates actually did move” he concurred, tapping the margin with a pen. “But they seem to have gotten only twenty-five. And since customs didn’t flag it—the shortfall actually comes off the client.”

“That is it—no more debates,” Antonio throated, lighting tobacco.

“Gentlemen! You want the next batch? Forty crates—mixed arms, including six prototypes I shouldn’t even have. You settle last month, not in words but cash. Else—”

“Else, what?”

Victor Loa challenged with furrowed brow.

“Else—else we won’t move a single box.” Antonio tapped a knuckle against the table. Rage.

Cesar sucked in air through his teeth. Jaw ticking.

“The offloaders must’ve taken their cut—what do they normally call it ?”

“Neighborhood tax.” Cardoza chimed in.

“Yes—exactly.” Cesar snapped his fingers. “Neighborhood cut. They always take their percentage for every shipment that crosses the border.”

“Seriously! Haven't heard about such, all my years in the business.” Victor Loa ran a questioning gaze at Cesar Maté.

“It started recently—I forgot to mention it”

Kiktor rubbed his eyebrow, and stretched—outwardly bored. Refilling his glass, he went to the far end of the room, by the window, and settled.

Antonio smirked, boldly reading the meaning to Kiktor’s move.

“Listen up, I don’t give a damn about what your border boys took—or their meth habits.” Smoke sizzled out his nostril like a broken exhaust pipe.

“Like I said, I don't run a charity—If you want new steel, you pay old debt, then I stamp this new deal. Simple, I don’t feed border cuts”

Victor Loa flipped through the last three pages of their ledger, teeth bare.

He couldn't bring himself to pay for goods he didn't receive.

“I disagree.” He snapped, slamming the ledger shut. “We can’t strike new orders if the missing ones can't be struck out.”

Antonio tilted his head with a lopsided grin “Then don’t.”

Victor signaled Cesar. They rose to leave—but Antonio’s threat froze them mid-step.

“Before anything, Gentlemen, we balance the books, or I start erasing names from this world, and the next.”

The men paused.

“You wouldn't dare,” Victor sneered.

“Is it a dare?” Antonio’s grin came out slow, dangerous.

His lips moving silently, before a single question dropped icily—

“Shoot!”

A red pointer emerged on Victor's forehead. The next second, the sound of a bullet broke in, through the window.

Kiktor shoved his Boss {Victor Loa}, and they both landed on the floor.

“Holy sh*t!” Victor cussed, edging murderous glare at Antonio—Kiktor already drew his gun, pointing.

“Capo mio, you’re playing a foolish game. Lucas wouldn't dare go this far.” Cesar Maté barked.

“That's why he appointed me—I play Mafia better,” Antonio grinned, cocking his eyes at the gun Kiktor had on him.

“Handle with care—else I show you how to use em”

Victor gave Kiktor a nod and he put away the gun.

“This is what you call a temper—how come you're not Italian?” Light laughter rippled from Cesar.

Fake, just enough to avoid insult and conceal his fear.

“Gentlemen..please. Sit” Antonio urged, adjusting his tie which was slung over the shoulder like a napkin at a butcher’s counter.

Without argument, they returned to their seats. Kiktor & Cardoza’s alertness now at paramount.

“What the hell is this?” Cesar queried as Antonio slid forward an envelope.

“Open it.”

Enraged Victor tore the envelope open, scanned the note, then passed it to Cesar. Eyes darting back to Antonio.

“Shipment manifest?”

“No—rather a gift. For old times sake.” Antonio corrected.

“Now, that's client privilege,” Rafael smiled thinly.

Just as Antonio could highlight the new tip, the steel door creaked open.

Elian, one of his soldiers {errand boy}, stepped in—young, leanly built and a teardrop tattoo.

He walked straight to him, bent low, and whispered.

“God damnit!” Antonio muttered a cuss. “You sure?”

Elian nodded.

“Excuse me Señores,” Antonio rose.

Cesar Maté lifted his chin. “Any problem?”

Antonio blinked once, brushing off the question. “Back in a beat.”

Without waiting for interrogation, He turned and walked briskly after Elian, steps echoing sharper.

In his office. He just stared down at the lot.

Five Police vans littered the premises with their barrage of colours.

Uninformed men already escorting people out—no shouting. Just ghostlike glints of extraction.

“Any warrant ?” Antonio asked.

Elian, the only person in the room with him, responded.

“Yeah—explosive like”.

Antonio nodded curtly. He opened his drawer, retrieving his phone.

Dialing a number, he held it over his ear. “Call your men off”.

“Why ?”

“They are sabotaging my business flow—wait,” He pulled the phone away from his ear, glancing at the ID. Commissioner’s number.

“Breanna?”

“Surprise!” Breanna’s voice lilted, mocking.

“You’ve grown smarter.” Antonio chuckled dryly.

“What choice do I have? I’m dealing with Blade Knuckles.”

“Impressive—Hmm”

His growl rumbled low, while his fingers flew over the laptop, searching surveillance feeds.

“Don’t bother, a*shole,” Breanna cut in, insouciantly—as if she saw him.

“Keep Victor Loa and Cesar Maté calm—I’m coming in to pick them”

Antonio's fingers paused mid-air, but he didn't let his frigidity slip.

“Who are they?” He countered, his eerie baritone voice doing the mask.

“Two minutes—just two more minutes and believe me, you will know them” Breanna swore.

He hung up on her, jaw clenching fervently—anger boiling over like hot lava.”

> ¿Por qué está tan ansiosa por morir?{Why is she so eager to die?}.

His gaze snapped over his shoulder, toward the exit door.

“Seal every entrance”. He ordered, striding away.

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞…Cesar shifted restlessly after Rafael Mendez explained the manifesto.

“I don’t like this. We should just go.”

“No,” Victor objected, now obsessed with Antonio's new contract.

“If we want to keep our territory under our thumb, then this is the only way. We can't afford his black book.”

Victor knew that deals of sort, cost fortunes, but Antonio is offering it without any form of alimony.

He looked at the sealed door, waiting for Antonio's return.

Cesar scowled. “How sure are you that he delivers?”

Victor exhaled. “If it were Lucas, I’d stake everything. But with the stunt he pulled now, that kid isn’t an amateur—”

“Everyone pack up—we move.” Antonio’s voice cut through.

He made straight for his ledger and seized it.

“What happened?” Cesar grunted.

“Internal clean-up.”

“I thought you said this space was clean” Victor narrowed slits.

“I never said that it wasn’t being watched.” Antonio retorted, leading them through a galley corridor.

In the basement, engines purred. “Let’s finish this somewhere else.”

They all boarded the van, slipping into the driveway tunnel, leaving behind the chaos above.