RAFAEL
The amber liquid burns down my throat as I drain another glass of Macallan, the empty bottle joining its twin on the mahogany desk. The scotch has dulled my edges, but not enough to miss the sudden explosion of gunfire and screaming from downstairs. My hand freezes mid-pour, every muscle tensing. What the f**k was that?
I push myself up from the leather couch, my steps silent on the plush carpet as I move toward the door. The building trembles with another blast, and one of my foot soldiers bursts in, his face slick with sweat and his black suit jacket torn at the shoulder.
"We are under attack, Capo," he gasps, chest heaving. "Thomas’ tearing through our defenses like they're nothing."
My blood runs cold despite the scotch. "How the hell did he track us here?" I walk back to my
