Inside the venue’s finance office, Damon Kincaid hunched over a desk, his hand shaking as he tried to forge Maya’s signature on a check drawdown request. His forehead glistened with sweat.
The door opened quietly. Roman Torrez’s largest associate, a man with a shaved head and a dark suit, stepped inside.
“Mr. Kincaid,” the associate said, his voice deep. “Mr. Torrez sends his regards.”
He placed a thin binder on the desk. Damon’s own betting ledgers. Every losing wager. Every desperate call to various bookies.
“Four hundred thousand dollars,” the associate stated, tapping the binder. “Across four separate operations.”
Damon’s fake smile evaporated. He looked from the ledgers to the man, then to the door. His polished composure shattered.
“This is a mistake,” Damon stammered, his voice cracking. “I can get the money. Maya…”
The associate picked up the forged check request. “Maya is no longer your concern.”
Damon pushed himself from the desk, stumbling backward. His eyes darted around the office, searching for an escape.
He broke into a desperate run, heading for the soundboard area. He needed to find Maya. He needed that signature before Roman’s men came for him.
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