My business partner Maya ordered $4,850 worth of vintage cognac and Wagyu steaks at an exclusive Buckhead restaurant, fully expecting me to settle the syndicate front's tab like I always did.
By 2:30 AM, state police vehicles were still parked outside Marcel Steakhouse, their blue and red lights flashing rhythmically against the rain-slicked street. Officers collected evidence, spoke to witnesses, and escorted venue managers to federal court headquarters downtown for deposition statements. The scene was chaotic, a testament to the sudden collapse of a major criminal enterprise.
A photo flashed on my phone screen, sent by Kendra through an encrypted channel. It was Maya DuBose, stripped of her designer coat, her makeup smeared by tears, sitting in the back of a Fulton County transport van on her way to the Rice Street jail facility. Her arrogance was entirely gone, replaced by the hollow shock of someone who had realized too late that her safety net had been pulled away. She stared blankly, a woman broken.
Suddenly, my burner phone—the untraceable line I had bought three days ago specifically for this operation—vibrated on the leather seat beside me. It was an unlisted number.
I picked it up, my heart thumping a little faster. A brief, chilling text message appeared on the screen:
*You think a contract clause saves you, Darius? Maya was soft. I’m not. You bought yourself a few hours. See you before sunrise.*
My throat went dry. Marcus hadn’t left the state. He was still in Atlanta, and he knew who I was, where I was. The game wasn’t over. It was just entering a new, more dangerous phase.
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