Seven | Guns and snitches

MARCUS.

The casino buzzed around me with clinking chips, cheers, and dealer calls.

But at this blackjack table, it was just me and Don Héctor.

I snuck a peek at him through the eye holes of my sweaty Guy Fawkes mask, then down at my hands as he spoke.

The signet ring on my finger, a relic from my dad. It was my power symbol.

For three years after my dad's death, I'd been chasing shadows. Building a case against Tyrone, the golden boy of the cartel.

Turns out, the guy was a two-faced weasel, siphoning the cartel cash for himself through fake accounts.

Dad knew it all. Problem was, Tyrone got to him first. Took him, and everyone else who knew. Everyone except for Dimitri, that old warhorse.

Tough as nails and twice as stubborn, he became my trainer after that. We trained in secret, body and mind, piecing together evidence on Tyrone while staying off his radar.

It was a risky game, but a year ago, I walked right up to the big cheese himself, Don Héctor, and laid it all bare. Basically betting my life on the old man believing me.

Well, my gamble paid off.

Tyrone's reign ended with a gurgle, his face turning the same shade of purple as the signet ring on my finger.

Dimitri didn't want Tyrone's spot, so here I was. Soon to be the youngest, most powerful godfather La Mano Negra Cártel has ever seen.

Don Hèctor, an old man whose wrinkles seemed to tell a whole tale, spoke in a slow, deliberate voice.

"Macario tells me all three crates your company imported arrived without any complications," he said, his voice raspy with age.

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, Don Héctor. And our yogurts are all ready for the American market."

The old man chuckled, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He sat tall in his chair, broad shoulders pushing against the fabric.

There was a quiet power about him, a kind of respect that demanded attention. I couldn't help but feel a thrill just being in his presence.

"And what about all my candy?" he asked, leaning in conspiratorially.

I knew exactly what he meant - the drugs that had been cleverly hidden amongst the three crates of strawberries I had ordered for HydraHub Beverages, a company that was really just a front for our money laundering and drug trafficking.

"Everything's safe and sound," I assured him.

Don Héctor boomed a laugh, clapping his hands together. "Excellent! We deserve a toast to this!" he declared, beckoning over the waitress.

As she refilled his glass, he turned to me, his eyes twinkling.

I watched, mesmerized, as he lifted his glass in a toast. "To a new era of success," he said, his voice strong despite his age.

I clinked my glass against his.

Don Héctor threw his head back and downed his drink in one smooth gulp, while I set my down.

While the old man was preoccupied, fiddling with his phone, my gaze darted around the room, searching for any sign of Macario.

Sweat prickled at my palms.

Macario was responsible for running entire territories for us, overseeing our most critical operations.

Twelve agonizing hours had passed since our crew pulled off the smoothest heist – a daring operation halfway across the world in Tokyo.

Macario had spearheaded it, and they were supposed to be back any minute.

I shifted in my seat, impatience gnawing at me.

I was about to reach for my phone to call Dimitri when a familiar figure caught my eye.

Macario, tall and broad-shouldered, stood by the mini bar, his gaze briefly meeting mine before he gave a curt nod.

Relief washed over me momentarily.

I excused myself from Don Héctor, his attention still glued to his phone, and made my way to the private balcony overlooking the casino's gamefloor.

Stepping through the balcony doors where two guards stood guarding, I entered a luxurious suite where Macario and two other men waited.

On the glass coffee table in the center of the room sat a black box with polished, gleamy surface.

A thrill shot through me as I approached it – this box held the fruits of our Tokyo heist, the key to a massive payout.

I lifted the lid, and the excitement that had been bubbling inside me evaporated instantly.

My face flushed hot, a deep frown creasing my forehead. I slammed the box shut, the sharp sound echoing in the opulent room.

Macario, his face hardening, threw his hands up defensively. "But it was right there!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with panic. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up his carefully styled curls.

I pressed the cold steel of the gun against Macario's sweaty temple.

My face burned from the betrayal simmering in my veins.

I cocked the hammer back, the sharp click echoing in the tense silence.

"Where's my 90-carat diamond, Macario?" My voice was a low growl.

Macario, usually a picture of steely composure, looked like a cornered rat. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with terror. "I- I swear it was in there, Marcus. I don't know what happened."

You're a gangster, and gangsters don't ask questions.

A single, clean shot from me sent the first

man sprawling to the floor.

The sickening thud of the body hitting the carpet did little to calm the storm brewing inside me.

The second goon, smarter than the first, bolted for the exit. With practiced ease, I whipped out my second pistol, making sure Macario was still terrified by the first one.

A bullet tore through the muscle of the second man's hip, bringing him down with a strangled cry.

Macario wasn't so lucky. My third bullet ripped into his leg as he screamed in agony. "Fuck!" he roared.

Squatting beside the whimpering man with the injured hip, I pressed the barrel of the gun against his jaw. "If you ever get out of here alive, you should work on your coded signs. Knew something was off about you and your now dead friend the second I walked in."

The fear in his eyes was a reflection of my own simmering rage. "Who are you working for?" I demanded, my voice laced with steel.

He just shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight line.

A low groan from Macario interrupted me.

"Copy that," he muttered through gritted teeth.

I whirled on him, my gaze burning. "Non estoy en esto," he rasped, Spanish for "I'm not in on this." "An unknown chica has been spotted with the same box. She's headed for the vault."

Fueled by a fresh wave of fury, I snatched Macario's walkie-talkie. "Get down there, you brainless scumbags! Bring that woman and my diamond! This whole building is on lockdown. Nobody comes in or leaves until I get what's mine! It's my damn diamond or your heads! You hear me? Your heads!" I roared into the device before tossing it back to Macario.

"I could never betray this family after seeing what Don Héctor did to Tyrone," Macario pleaded.

"You better not."

The second goon I had injured, his face contorted in pain, tried to crawl away, leaving a bloody trail on the plush carpet.

I lunged for him, shoving the muzzle of my gun right into his oozing wound.

"Arghhhh!"

"Who do you work for?" I snarled, my voice laced with a dangerous calm. "Talk, and I'll let you live," I lied.

The guy gritted his teeth, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He wouldn't crack. Frustration gnawed at me, but I knew I couldn't waste time.

"Tomás!" I barked, the name echoing through the suite. Seconds later, the burly bodyguard, his face perpetually etched with concern, rushed in as I shoved the goon aside, now slowed down by the more pain I'd inflicted.

Before I could say anything, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I put it on speaker.

"Marcus," Dimitri's voice crackled with urgency, "the diamond is a diversion. Get Héctor out of there, now!"

"Dimitri? What's happening?" My blood ran cold.

The call ended abruptly. A beat of silence hung heavy in the air, shattered by a cacophony of gunshots erupting from somewhere outside the suite.

"What the hell is going on out there?!" I yelled, my grip tightening on the phone.

Tomás bolted towards the door and outside the suite.

"Once Don Héctor is dead," Macario rasped, a pistol clutched in his hand, "there will be no one to crown you as next godfather."

A gunshot echoed in the room, the world erupting in a blinding flash of pain.

Macario's bullet tore through my chest, the impact knocking the wind out of me. My knees buckled, but the bulletproof vest, thank God, held. A searing pain still radiated through me, making it hard to breathe.

Gasping, I clawed my way back to my feet, my hand instinctively reaching for my other gun. Through the haze of pain, I saw Macario, his leg still a bloody mess, struggling to reload.

"Debo admitir," he wheezed, a cruel smile playing on his lips as the distant gunshots continued, "I never thought you'd have the guts for this. Dimitri did a good job turning you into a monster. He always was good at drawing out the beast in people."

Another shot rang out, the bullet finding purchase in my chest again.

Agony ripped through me, the world blurring at the edges. But in that moment, fueled by primal rage and a desperate need to survive, I reacted. My own gun roared, the bullet finding its mark.

Macario's whole body crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide with disbelief. I hadn't meant to kill him just yet, but I had.

As I reloaded my gun, another pain erupted in my back. The asshole with the injured hip had gotten a lucky shot, the bullet biting into my flesh. I roared in pain, but there was no time to dwell on it.

I spun around, finger tightening on the trigger. But the room was empty. He was gone.

Finally staggering out of the suite, I ripped off my bulletproof vest, a desperate prayer escaping my lips.

I took cober behind the railings that overlooked the casino floor. It was a scene from hell down there.

My men lay scattered, the stench of sulphur heavy in the air.

Shrieking screams filled the air although the gunshots had seized.

Gamers had scrambled for cover, some diving beneath overturned slot machines, others huddled behind the gleaming chrome railings.

I spotted Don Héctor finally. He was crouched behind the counter at the mini bar. One peek over the counter, and he was done for. I had to get to him.

Just a few feet away, Tomás lay sprawled on the plush carpet, his burly frame unnaturally still.

Grabbing his walkie talkie, I discreetly tried to warn the only bodyguard left. He'd walked in from outside the casino. "Shooter on your left! By the toppled blackjack table!" But it was too late. A spray of bullets erupted from the bar area.

My heart hammered against my ribs. With a deep breath, I sprinted across the open floor, my back screaming in protest. Bullets zipped past my head, whining like angry hornets.

Reaching Don Héctor, I crouched beside him.

"I'm gonna get you out of here. I promise."

He grunted in agreement, his face contorted in pain. "Took out two of them," he rasped, "but they got me too." There was a bloody gash on his shoulder.

Just then, Dimitri rang.

"Marcus? Still hanging in there?"

"The godfather is fine."

"How many shooters are in there?"

"Three fucking killing machines-"

The line went dead.

A split second later, the air erupted with fresh gunfire.

Screams from the gamers intensified, a horrifying chorus of terror and pain.

Expensive bottles broke under the relentless assault of bullets.

Peeking over the edge, I spotted a figure silhouetted in the plush interior of the VIP lounge.

Aiming with shaking hands, I squeezed the trigger. My bullet missed, but the assailant's own didn't. It grazed my ear. A hiss of pain escaped my lips, but I couldn't give in to it. Not in front of the godfather.

"Give me the gun, Marcus," Don Héctor's voice was steady.

"No! You're hurt, you can't-"

He ignored my protest, snatching the gun from my grasp with surprising strength. Without even fully exposing himself, he extended his arm over the table, a single, well-placed shot ringing out. The figure in the VIP lounge crumpled to the floor.

Just then, the casino doors burst open with another bang. Dimitri and a new crew charged in, a hail of bullets clearing the remaining attackers. Their bodies lay sprawled on the blood-soaked floor, grim reminders of the brutality that had just unfolded.

Dimitri rushed to our side, his face grim. "Let's go! We need to get you two out of here."

We finally escaped, and as we sped away in the getaway car, the weight of what had happened settled in. Dimitri's plan, using the remaining guards as a diversion, had saved our lives.

But a chilling question hung heavy in the air: who had orchestrated this attack? And most importantly, who could we trust now?

***