Nico's jaw tightened. His hands trembled with rage — a tremor that started in his fingers and climbed through his wrists until his entire forearm was rigid with it. He was not a man built for patience. The outfit he had assembled reflected that: fast money, faster violence, loyalty purchased rather than earned. Without another word, he yanked his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and began typing furiously, his thumb stabbing at the screen with the controlled brutality of a man driving nails.
A second later, my own phone buzzed against my thigh.
I glanced at the screen — and my stomach dropped.