chapter 77
JACE MARINO
The surveillance room was too bright for how early it was, all cold screens and humming machines and the quiet, stretched-out tension of men who were one mistake away from snapping. I leaned over the central desk, fingers tapping against the metal frame watching the live feeds flick through Chinatown, Midtown, the hospital district. Enzo was behind me with a coffee in one hand, looking like he hadn't slept but still somehow judging everyone else for it. Dominic stood beside him, arms crossed, posture stiff, eyes glued to the monitors.
Takeda was in New York.
And he wasn't hiding anymore.
"Replay that," I said, pointing at the grainy camera feed on the far left. Dominic scrubbed backward. A tall man, hooded, walking past the Serrano warehouse. Same build. Same stride. Same arrogance in the way he moved.
"That's him," Enzo muttered. "What the hell is the old man doing dressed like a boy?"
The air in the room went colder.
