The metal door groaned open, a rusted animal waking under pressure.
Light spilled into the warehouse like judgment—low, wide, and gold. It cut through smoke and dust in thick columns, illuminating flecks of dried blood on the floor, on the wall, on Miguel's shoes. It made the truth visible in high definition: what had been done, what remained to be done.
El Fantasma stood in the doorway, one gloved hand still on the latch, the other holding a cigar that now burned dangerously close to the filter. The sun backlit the Ghost like a holy icon, erasing detail and leaving only outline: a silhouette of absolute control.
Behind, the two surviving men remained frozen, kneeling in the shadow of the chair where the third man had died. Blood had begun to seep into their shoes. One of them, Miguel, was shaking violently enough now that the puddle beneath him rippled.
The lieutenant stood nearby, hands still empty after handing over the flash drive. He dared not move. Not yet.
El didn't turn.
"News from Sicily?" the Ghost asked.
The voice was too calm for the context. Like discussing breakfast.
The lieutenant cleared his throat quietly, but not too quietly. He had done this before.
"They say Il Lupo is moving in."
Il Lupo. The Wolf.
The name slipped through the air like oil.
El didn't respond. Not immediately. The cigar was raised, drawn on, exhaled—one fluid movement. The smoke didn't drift. It hung, like a veil.
"East coast," the man added. "Through Guadalajara. Could be coincidence. Could be an invitation."
A long pause.
The only sound was the wind outside, dragging sand across the warehouse's steel skin.
"Il Lupo," El said at last. "The Wolf."
Not a question. Not surprise.
A naming. A confirmation.
The Ghost stepped fully into the light now, letting the orange wash over them. The shape of the body was still ambiguous—slender, perhaps, but padded by the sharp angles of a tailored coat. The mask did the rest. Sleek. Blank. Reflective.
They didn't move like a man or a woman.
They moved like an inevitability.
The cigar's tip flared as it was drawn again. Then, calmly, ground against the warehouse wall.
Ash smeared across old graffiti. A ghost over ghosts.
"Let him come," El said.
And with that, they walked away.
⸻
Outside, the desert stretched wide and indifferent. Scrub and bone littered the earth like forgotten intentions. A hawk circled high, silent, patient. The wind tasted dry, the kind of air that preserved blood on steel for years.
A matte-black SUV waited on the roadside, low and polished, its paint absorbing light. Two guards stood at its flanks, rifles slung but untouched. Their faces were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, their postures carved from concrete. They didn't speak. Didn't nod. Didn't even breathe loud.
El Fantasma approached, and the doors opened without prompt.
The Ghost slid inside.
The door sealed behind them with a thunk that sounded more like a vault than a vehicle.
Inside, the temperature was clinical. Cool enough to preserve. Silent enough to confess.
A tablet glowed softly on the seat.
It had no lock screen. El's fingerprint woke it.
Three folders appeared:
• Italian Movements
• Internal Loyalty Audit
• Confidential: Veracruz Leak
The Ghost opened the first.
A digital map spilled across the screen like arteries. Red and blue threads crawled across Europe, the eastern U.S., and now — freshly — into Central America. They pulsed softly with motion-tracking data, like veins. Like infection.
The Puebla node blinked.
A shell company. Two days old. Already bribing port authorities and local customs inspectors. Clean papers. Dirty hands.
At the center of it all, the same name repeated in layered code:
Valentino Moretti
Alias: Il Lupo
Romero's reflection appeared on the screen before his voice did.
"He's not moving quietly."
El didn't look up. Only tapped the Puebla thread. It opened into wire logs, shipping manifests, a coded phone call where someone referred to "the gift with teeth."
"Calculated," Romero added. "Not reckless."
El tilted their head slightly, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
"Arrogant," they said. Not disapprovingly.
Romero leaned forward slightly in his seat. "He's testing. Making a small push. Waiting to see if we shove."
The Ghost didn't answer immediately. A finger slid down the screen. More nodes lit up. Bribes. Docks. Local favors owed.
"We don't shove," El said finally.
Romero raised an eyebrow.
"We erase."
The SUV hit a stretch of road that rattled slightly — enough to remind them they were still moving. The guards didn't flinch. The vehicle didn't slow.
"There's a meet in Tijuana," Romero said. "End of the week. Small. Quiet. One rep on each side."
He hesitated.
"They say he admires you. Believes in old-world principles. Loyalty. Discipline. The myth."
Still, El said nothing.
"Might even want a seat at the table," Romero offered.
That did it.
The Ghost turned, finally meeting his eyes.
"There is no table," El said. "There's only me."
Romero absorbed the line with the patience of a man who knew how to listen to thunder.
Outside, the SUV cut through heat mirages and scattered birds into the sky.
Inside, the screen blinked again.
A new file. A single still frame.
Valentino, stepping off his private jet.
Three-piece suit. Rose in his pocket. Sunglasses in one hand. A smirk shaped like something between confidence and invitation.
El Fantasma stared at it without blinking.
Then leaned back.
Then closed their eyes.
Not to rest.
To calculate.