The Mercato Del Muerte had a sound when it was restless.
It wasn't loud—no alarms, no shouting—but a low, crawling hum beneath the mansion, like a beast turning in its sleep. Vinny felt it before anyone said a word.
He stood at the wide glass wall of Matthew's study, watching rain drag silver scars down the windows. Below, guards moved in tighter patterns than usual. Too precise. Too alert.
Something was wrong.
"You're pacing," Matthew said behind him.
Vinny didn't turn. "You're pretending not to notice."
Silence stretched.
Matthew exhaled slowly. "Reports are delayed. Three ports didn't check in this morning."
Vinny finally faced him. "That doesn't just happen."
"No." Matthew's jaw tightened. "It's being made to happen."
The Mercato wasn't just a market—it was a living network. Information, weapons, money, leverage. If someone was disrupting ports without leaving fingerprints, they weren't reckless.
They were skilled.
A knock cut through the tension.
