The luxury SUV glided through the rain-slicked streets of the city like a predatory shark cutting through dark water. Inside, the cabin was a vacuum of silence, insulated from the sirens and the chaos of the city Augustino Costa called his playground. He sat in the back, his fingers tracing the edge of a gold coin he kept in his pocket, a habit from his youth, a reminder of the weight of tangible power.
His "arrest" had lasted exactly forty-two minutes. It had been a choreographed dance of paperwork and polite apologies, a performance staged for the benefit of a few idealistic FBI agents who didn't yet realize that in this city, the law wasn't a set of rules; it was a commodity.
While the feds were busy cataloging the empty files in his study, Augustino had been sipping espresso in his
