Chapter 8: An Unlikely Alliance

Maya slipped out through the artist loading dock, the cool night air biting at her cheeks. A black SUV idled at the far end of the alley.

Roman Torrez sat in the back seat, the window rolling down silently. “Ms. Kincaid. You’re punctual.”

She slid into the front passenger seat, the leather cool beneath her. The interior smelled faintly of expensive cologne and old cigar smoke.

“Damon lied to you, Mr. Torrez,” Maya began, her voice steady. “He didn’t use your loan for my production.”

She handed him a folded printout of record label audit statements. Roman took them without a word, his eyes scanning the columns of numbers.

“The $350,000,” Maya continued, “it never touched the tour budget. It went directly into his illegal sports betting accounts. All of it. Within seventy-two hours.”

Roman’s face remained impassive, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. He handed the papers back to Maya.

“He told us it was for stage equipment,” Roman said, his voice flat. “For your lights. Your sound.”

“He used it to pay off old debts,” Maya countered. “Then doubled down and lost it all.”

Roman leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the stadium lights. “Soundcheck finishes in an hour. My collectors will wait until then.”

He looked at her, his eyes cold and unwavering. “This is your only window, Ms. Kincaid. Make it count.”