106

DAMIEN RAPHAËL POV

The water was choppy, rough enough to keep the cowards off the sea, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

My hands stayed firm on the steering wheel of the motorboat, the wind cutting across my face as we cruised toward the drop point. I wore my aviator shades, not for fashion, but because I liked to see clearly without squinting like some amateur.

Behind me, a few of my old man’s loyal foot soldiers sat with their guns resting between their knees, their heads bobbing slightly with the boat’s rhythm.

The cargo was strapped down, three crates, locked tight, marked only with black tape. I didn’t ask what was inside. I already knew. This was business, and in my world, business never asked too many questions.

As we neared the dock, I saw the buyer and his men waiting. Ten of them, maybe more, all dressed with open shirts, sunglasses and cigars. The type of guys who drank scotch for breakfast and bragged about the time they “almost died” smuggling shit through Marseille. They