Damon burst through the heavy metal exit doors, gasping for breath, into the rainy loading bay. The asphalt glistened under the sodium lights.
Roman Torrez stepped out from behind a parked equipment truck, his expression unreadable.
“Damon,” Roman said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. “We need to discuss your outstanding balance.”
Damon swayed, his eyes wide with terror. He glanced around the empty loading dock. No security. No police.
“Your management company,” Roman continued, “your personal vehicles, and your future earnings are now assigned to the syndicate.”
Roman made a small gesture. Two of his men moved forward, one on each side of Damon. They were silent, efficient.
“Four hundred thousand dollars,” Roman stated, “plus an additional fifty thousand penalty for attempting to defraud my network.”
Without raising a voice or drawing a weapon, they escorted a silent, trembling Damon into the rear seat of a black SUV. The vehicle’s engine rumbled to life.
It drove away into the Los Angeles traffic, disappearing before the police or press even realized what had occurred backstage.
Inside the venue, Evelyn Navarro smiled at Maya, a genuine warmth in her eyes. “Your bank accounts have been fully restored. And your management contract? Nullified.”
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