The federal surveillance warning pulses in your vision, a crimson emergency alert against the ambient darkness of the parking lot. Your decision is instantaneous, calculated to maximize both tactical advantage and interpersonal gain.
Without breaking eye contact with Gisele, you step closer—intentionally invading her personal space. She tenses, ready for anything but what comes next. You lean in until your lips nearly brush her ear, the scent of her skin eclipsing the lingering smell of burnt rubber and asphalt. Your whisper is soft but precise, like a scalpel cutting through the night:
"Your FBI friend Brian? He's reporting to Braga right now. And we're being monitored by a directional mic from that gray Impala."
Her reaction is immaculately controlled—only the
Truth and Consequences: Forging Trust Under Surveillance
The federal surveillance warning pulses in your vision, a crimson emergency alert against the ambient darkness of the parking lot. Your decision is instantaneous, calculated to maximize both tactical advantage and interpersonal gain.
Without breaking eye contact with Gisele, you step closer—intentionally invading her personal space. She tenses, ready for anything but retreat. You place your hand gently on her lower back and lean in until your lips nearly brush her ear, the scent of her skin eclipsing the lingering smell of burnt rubber and asphalt.
"Brian O'Conner is an undercover FBI agent," you whisper, your voice barely audible even to her. "And there's a directional microphone pointed at us right now from an unmarked sedan 120 meters east. Federal."
You feel her body stiffen against yours, the micro-tension in her muscles betraying her surprise despite her controlled exterior. Her hand moves to your arm, fingers pressing into your bicep with precise pressure—warning, acknowledgment, and calculation all at once.
"How certain?" she breathes against your neck, maintaining the appearance of intimate conversation.
"One hundred percent," you reply. Your interface flashes new data as you speak:
[GISELE YASHAR: TRUST ASSESSMENT - CONDITIONAL]
[HEART RATE: ELEVATED]
[PUPIL DILATION: INCREASED]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: CONTINUE DISCLOSURE]
"O'Conner is targeting Dom specifically. Operation Fuel Injector. Started after the truck hijackings." You pull back slightly, studying her eyes for signs of deception. "But you already suspected something was off about him."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Intuition. Nothing concrete." Her eyes narrow slightly. "Unlike you."
You take her hand, a deliberate gesture that appears romantic to any watching eyes but serves to draw her toward your BMW. "Let's give our audience something boring to listen to. I have more to share."
The interface updates as you walk:
[SURVEILLANCE FOCUS: MAINTAINED]
[COUNTERMEASURE OPTIONS:
ELECTRONIC JAMMING (EFFECTIVENESS: 87%) ACOUSTIC INTERFERENCE (EFFECTIVENESS: 63%) DIRECTIONAL EVASION (EFFECTIVENESS: 91%)]
You select the third option with a subtle mental command. The BMW's doors unlock as you approach, and you guide Gisele to the passenger side, opening the door with old-world courtesy that masks tactical positioning—placing the car's body between her and the surveillance team.
Inside the vehicle, you activate a subsystem through your interface. The BMW's speakers emit a nearly inaudible frequency pattern that disrupts directional microphone technology while leaving normal conversation unaffected.
[COUNTERMEASURE ACTIVE: SURVEILLANCE AUDIO COMPROMISED]
[ESTIMATED EFFECTIVE DURATION: 20 MINUTES]
[PRIVATE COMMUNICATION: SECURED]
"They can still see us, but they can't hear us now," you explain, starting the engine. "We should move anyway. Surveillance teams rarely work alone."
Gisele's posture shifts—professional mode engaging fully. "Who are you? Really."
Instead of answering directly, you pull away from the race scene, driving with calculated casualness. "I know things I shouldn't be able to know. About Dom's crew. About Brian. About you."
Her eyebrow arches. "Try me."
"You work for Arturo Braga," you say, watching her reaction carefully. "Not directly. Through Ramon Campos, his public face. You scout drivers for his drug runs across the border."
The change in her is subtle but profound—predator to prey in a heartbeat, then back to predator just as quickly. Her hand moves slightly toward her waistband where you suspect she carries a concealed weapon.
"That would make us enemies," she says, voice dangerously soft.
"It would if I cared about Braga's operation," you reply, taking a sharp turn that breaks any potential tail. "I don't. I care about the Union Depository job, and I need the best for that. You qualify."
The tension in the car is electric, balanced between threat and opportunity. Your interface measures her physical responses, calculating probabilities:
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: 62% PROBABILITY OF AGGRESSIVE ACTION]
[ALLIANCE POTENTIAL: 75% WITH ADDITIONAL INCENTIVE]
[RECOMMENDED APPROACH: VULNERABILITY DISPLAY]
You pull the BMW into an empty overlook above the city, kill the engine, and execute the recommended approach—a calculated risk.
"I'm going to show you something that puts my life in your hands," you say quietly. You activate your GTA menu interface with a mental command, but this time, you adjust its visibility settings.
Suddenly, Gisele can see what only you should see—a glowing, three-dimensional menu floating between you, displaying impossible options: vehicles, weapons, money transfers, even weather control. Her sharp intake of breath confirms the impact.
"What the hell is this?" she whispers, hand halfway to the holographic display before stopping herself.
"The truth," you answer simply. "I'm not from here. This world, this reality—it's not my original one." You deactivate the menu before continuing. "I have capabilities that shouldn't exist. Knowledge that shouldn't be accessible. And I've chosen to use them to assemble the perfect team for the perfect score."
Her eyes haven't left your face, searching for deception. "Why show me this? Why not Dom?"
"Because Dom is bound by loyalty and family. His decisions will always prioritize protecting his people over optimal outcomes." You hold her gaze. "You make decisions based on calculated risk and reward. Like I do."
The moment stretches between you, a tightrope of trust suspended over an abyss of consequences. Finally, Gisele speaks.
"If Brian is FBI, Dom needs to know."
"Not yet," you counter. "Brian's cover is our advantage. We use him to monitor the FBI's movements, feed them what we want them to know."
She considers this, professional instincts visibly processing the strategy. "And Braga? I have commitments there."
Your interface presents options, calculating optimal responses:
[ELIMINATE BRAGA: 23% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
[INCORPORATE BRAGA OPERATION: 47% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
[EXTRACT GISELE FROM BRAGA: 81% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
"After the Union Depository, Braga becomes irrelevant," you say. "You'll have enough money to disappear completely or buy your way to the top of whatever organization you want. Including his."
Her lips curve slightly—not quite a smile, but acknowledgment of the audacity. "You're assuming success."
"I don't assume. I ensure." You restart the engine, the BMW's purr underscoring your confidence. "Tomorrow at Dom's garage, I present the plan. Tonight, I need to know if you're with me or against me."
The city lights reflect off her face as she considers, calculating her own probabilities. The silence stretches until she finally speaks.
"I want thirty percent instead of twenty. And I want your guarantee that when this is over, I walk away clean—from Braga, from the feds, from everything."
Your interface flashes:
[NEGOTIATION PARAMETERS: ACCEPTABLE]
[LOYALTY ACQUISITION: IN PROGRESS]
[RECOMMENDED RESPONSE: ACCEPT WITH CONDITION]
"Twenty-five percent," you counter. "And my personal guarantee of your clean exit. But I need something in return."
Her eyebrow arches again, questioning.
"Inside information on Braga's operation," you say. "Not to interfere, but to ensure it doesn't interfere with us. And your help managing Brian's situation when the time comes."
Gisele extends her hand, a businesslike gesture at odds with the intimate setting. "Deal."
You take it, sealing the agreement with a handshake that lingers just long enough to acknowledge the current beneath your transaction. As your fingers slide apart, the interface updates:
[ALLIANCE FORMED: GISELE YASHAR]
[LOYALTY STATUS: CONDITIONAL]
[ASSET VALUE: EXCEPTIONAL]
[VULNERABILITY: DEVELOPING MUTUAL ATTRACTION]
"There's one more thing you should know," you say, shifting the BMW into drive. "The FBI surveillance tonight wasn't coincidence. Someone in Dom's extended circle is feeding them information."
Her eyes narrow. "Who?"
"That's what we need to find out before tomorrow's meeting." You pull back onto the road, heading toward the city. "I have resources that can identify the leak, but I need access to their communications."
Gisele's phone appears in her hand. "I have Hector's number. He knows everyone at the races. If someone's talking to cops, he'll have suspicions."
Your interface connects to her device as she unlocks it, invisibly scanning contacts and message history:
[COMMUNICATION NETWORK: MAPPING]
[POTENTIAL SOURCES: 17 IDENTIFIED]
[CROSS-REFERENCE WITH FBI PROTOCOLS: IN PROGRESS]
"Good," you say, the BMW accelerating smoothly toward downtown. "But we'll need more than suspicions for Dom to believe us about Brian."
Gisele's smile is razor-sharp in the dashboard light. "I know how to get what we need."
Bait and Surveillance: Setting the Trap for Brian
Prompt: : [C: Manipulation tactic - Have Gisele feed Brian false information about a potential heist tonight, then monitor which FBI units respond.]
"Ever play chess?" you ask Gisele as the BMW glides through LA's midnight streets. "The key isn't capturing pieces. It's forcing your opponent to move exactly where you want them."
She nods, already following your logic. "Feed Brian information so specific that when the FBI responds, it confirms his identity beyond doubt."
"Precisely." You pull into a 24-hour diner, selecting it for its strategic value—crowded enough for privacy, public enough for plausible meeting grounds. "But the information needs to be perfect. Believable but false. Time-sensitive enough to force immediate action."
Your interface activates as you scan nearby vehicles:
[SCANNING VICINITY: 200M RADIUS]
[FBI SURVEILLANCE UNITS DETECTED: 1]
[VEHICLE: BLACK FORD EXPLORER, PLATE #7ABX143]
[AUDIO SURVEILLANCE: ACTIVE]
[VISUAL SURVEILLANCE: LIMITED]
"They followed us," you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say quietly as you exit the car" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say quietly as you exit the car, offering your hand to Gisele in a gesture that appears romantic but positions your body between her and the surveillance vehicle. "Black Explorer, three cars down. Two agents."
Her expression doesn't change as she takes your hand, but her fingers squeeze once in acknowledgment. "Good. Makes this easier."
Inside, you select a booth with clear sightlines to both the entrance and your BMW. Your interface maps the diner's layout, calculating acoustic properties and camera angles. Within seconds, you've identified a perfect blind spot in the restaurant's surveillance coverage.
"When Brian arrives at Dom's tomorrow," you explain over coffee neither of you will drink, "we need Dom already questioning him. The FBI response tonight will plant those seeds."
Gisele leans forward, her posture intimate—a performance for watching eyes. "I'll call Mia. She trusts me enough, and Brian's sweet on her. I'll tell her I heard chatter about a high-value car shipment at the port tonight. Something too good to pass up."
Your interface calculates probabilities:
[SCENARIO ANALYSIS: PORT HEIST FABRICATION]
[BELIEVABILITY FACTOR: 87%]
[FBI RESPONSE PROBABILITY: 93%]
[RISK ASSESSMENT: MODERATE]
"Perfect," you agree. "Specify Pier 19. Midnight. High-end exotics bound for buyers in Dubai. Minimal security during transfer."
"Dom would never hit a port without days of planning," Gisele notes.
"Brian doesn't know that yet. He's still learning Dom's methods. The FBI won't know either—they'll respond to any potential boost involving Toretto's crew."
She nods, pulling out her phone. "And when FBI tactical teams swarm an empty pier tonight?"
"We'll be watching. And recording." You activate another feature of your interface, cycling through surveillance options until finding the optimal configuration. "I can access port security systems remotely. We'll have multiple camera angles of the FBI response."
Gisele makes the call to Mia, her acting flawless as she plays the role of concerned friend sharing valuable information. The conversation lasts less than two minutes, but you can already see the cascade of events it will trigger: Mia telling Brian, Brian alerting his handler, FBI mobilizing tactical teams for a major interdiction.
"Ninety minutes," Gisele says after hanging up. "That's how long Brian will wait before making his move. He'll need to alert his superiors without making Mia suspicious."
Your interface confirms her assessment:
[FBI PROTOCOL ANALYSIS: UNDERCOVER ASSET REPORTING]
[ESTIMATED RESPONSE TIME: 87-104 MINUTES]
[TACTICAL DEPLOYMENT PREPARATION: 35-40 MINUTES]
[PORT ARRIVAL WINDOW: 11:45PM - 12:10AM]
"Then we have time for phase two," you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say, sliding from the booth and leaving cash for the untouched coffee. "We need to be in position before they arrive."
Back in the BMW, you engage privacy mode through your interface, creating a sound-dampening field around the vehicle. From the outside, it appears you're having an intimate conversation—a perfect cover as you outline the next steps.
You access the GTA menu through your interface, scrolling through options until finding what you need. With a mental command, you select a specialized item:
[EQUIPMENT REQUISITION: ADVANCED SURVEILLANCE PACKAGE]
[CONTENTS: DIRECTIONAL MICROPHONES, THERMAL IMAGING, DRONE SUPPORT]
[DEPLOYMENT: IN PROGRESS]
[ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: 15 MINUTES]
"There's a storage unit three blocks from here," you tell Gisele. "Equipment we'll need will be waiting."
Her eyebrow arches. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," you confirm, starting the engine. "One of my... abilities."
At the storage facility, you find exactly what the interface promised—cutting-edge surveillance equipment that shouldn't be available to civilians. Gisele handles each piece with professional familiarity, checking specifications with practiced efficiency.
"Military grade," she observes, examining a thermal imaging scope. "Not even Braga has access to this level of tech."
You don't explain further, letting the equipment speak for itself. Within minutes, you've loaded everything into the BMW and are heading toward the port.
The drive gives you time to study Gisele more carefully. Her body language has shifted since your alliance formed—more fluid, less guarded. The interface provides continuous biometric analysis:
[SUBJECT: GISELE YASHAR]
[STRESS INDICATORS: MINIMAL]
[DECEPTION MARKERS: NONE DETECTED]
[COMPATIBILITY ASSESSMENT: HIGH]
[ATTRACTION INDICATORS: PRESENT BUT CONTROLLED]
"You've done this before," she says suddenly, breaking the silence. "Set traps. Manipulated situations."
"In another life," you admit, the half-truth easier than a full explanation.
The port appears ahead, industrial lighting casting harsh shadows across container yards and loading docks. You park the BMW in a strategic location with multiple exit routes, concealed from main access roads but with clear sightlines to Pier 19.
"Now we wait," Gisele says, checking her watch. "And if the FBI doesn't show?"
Your interface calculates the probability:
[FBI RESPONSE CERTAINTY: 96.7%]
[CONTINGENCY PLANNING: INITIATED]
"They'll come," you assure her. "But if they don't, we move to contingency. I have other ways to expose Brian."
The waiting is tactical, filled with purpose rather than tension. You deploy surveillance equipment with Gisele's help—micro-drones positioned for aerial coverage, directional microphones aimed at key approach routes, thermal imaging scanning for the heat signatures of tactical teams.
Your interface integrates all incoming data streams, creating a comprehensive surveillance network that would make government agencies envious. Gisele watches this process with undisguised fascination.
"Whatever you are," she says quietly, "you're changing everything. You know that?"
Before you can respond, the interface flashes urgent alerts:
[VEHICULAR MOVEMENT DETECTED: SOUTH ENTRANCE]
[THERMAL SIGNATURES: MULTIPLE ARMED PERSONNEL]
[COMMUNICATION INTERCEPT: FBI TACTICAL CHANNEL]
[POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION: FBI SPECIAL RESPONSE TEAM]
"They're here," you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say, activating the full surveillance suite. "Right on schedule."
Three unmarked vans enter the port, moving with the precision of well-trained units. They converge on Pier 19, deploying tactical teams in standard FBI formation. Your surveillance captures everything—faces, weapons, tactical communications.
Most importantly, it captures the operation commander stepping from the lead vehicle: Special Agent Bilkins, Brian O'Conner's direct supervisor.
"That's our proof," Gisele whispers, watching the thermal feed as the FBI teams sweep the empty pier. "Tactical response to information only Brian could have provided."
Your interface records and compiles everything, creating an irrefutable evidence package:
[EVIDENCE COMPILATION: COMPLETE]
[FBI PERSONNEL IDENTIFIED: 17]
[COMMAND STRUCTURE: MAPPED]
[OPERATIONAL PROTOCOLS: DOCUMENTED]
"We have more than proof," you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say" data-segment-id="68fc09e76cbbe3cc96bde00f" data-novel-id="68fc04b7c2c128f7e37206d1">" you say, displaying a captured communication frequency through your interface. "We have their entire operational channel. We'll know every move they make against Dom's crew before they make it."
Gisele's smile is cold and satisfied in the blue glow of the surveillance screens. "Brian is finished."
"Not yet," you correct her, already formulating the next move. "Tomorrow at Dom's, we don't just expose Brian. We turn him."
Brotherhood Betrayed: The Truth About Brian O'Conner
Prompt: : [A: Controlled Revelation - Present the evidence to Dom alone first, allowing him to process the betrayal and decide how to handle Brian on his terms.]
Dom's garage opens at 8 AM, but you arrive at 7:15, BMW rolling silently into the alley behind DT Precision Auto. Your interface maps the building's layout, identifying security cameras, entry points, and the most likely location for a private conversation.
[LOCATION ASSESSMENT: COMPLETE]
[SURVEILLANCE: MINIMAL]
[OPTIMAL APPROACH: REAR ENTRANCE]
[DOM TORETTO: DETECTED INSIDE]
As expected, Dom arrives early to work alone before his crew. You intercept a text message from Mia to Brian—he won't arrive until 9:30. Perfect timing.
Dominic Toretto's massive frame bends over the engine bay of a partially rebuilt Supra when you enter. He doesn't look up immediately—a power move you recognize and respect. The garage smells of motor oil, metal, and the lingering scent of Corona from what was likely last night's post-race celebration.
"You're early," Dom finally says, straightening to his full height. His eyes assess you with the same precision he'd use to evaluate an engine block. "Eager to talk business or just don't sleep?"
"Both," you reply, maintaining comfortable eye contact while your interface scans his physical state:
[DOM TORETTO: ALERT LEVEL - MODERATE]
[PHYSICAL STANCE: NEUTRAL/PREPARED]
[CONCEALED WEAPONS: NONE DETECTED]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: GUARDED CURIOSITY]
"I have something you need to see before the others arrive," you continue, placing a sleek tablet on the workbench. "Particularly before O'Conner gets here."
Dom's expression hardens slightly at the tone you use for Brian's name. Family is everything to him—even newer additions. "What's this about?"
"Betrayal," you say simply. "And how we can turn it to our advantage."
You activate the tablet, displaying the first piece of evidence—thermal imaging of the FBI tactical team at the port last night. Dom's posture shifts imperceptibly as he recognizes the implications of what he's seeing.
"These are feds," he states flatly. "What's this got to do with my crew?"
"Everything." You swipe to the next image—a clear shot of Special Agent Bilkins directing operations. "This is Special Agent Bilkins. FBI. He runs an undercover operation specifically targeting you and your team."
Dom's eyes narrow, muscles tensing as he processes this information. "How do you know this?"
Instead of answering directly, you play an audio recording captured by your directional microphones: Bilkins' voice, crystal clear, discussing "Toretto's crew" and "O'Conner's intel."
The change in Dom is immediate and dangerous—like watching a NOS system engage. His massive hands grip the edge of the workbench, knuckles whitening.
"Brian," he says, the single word containing volumes of betrayal.
"Brian O'Conner. Undercover FBI. Placed in your organization after the truck hijackings." You maintain a respectful distance as Dom processes this revelation. "He's been feeding information to Bilkins since before Race Wars."
Dom's breathing changes, controlled rage evident in every measured inhale. "And you know this how?"
This is the critical moment—you need to give enough truth to cement trust without revealing the full extent of your capabilities.
"I have resources," you say carefully. "Intelligence networks. I knew who Brian was the moment I saw him at your café."
You swipe to more evidence—surveillance photos of Brian meeting Bilkins at a secure location weeks earlier, documentation of his police academy graduation, his FBI credentials captured through your interface's remote scanning capabilities.
"Why show me this?" Dom asks finally, his voice dangerously quiet. "Why not just tell everyone?"
Your interface calculates potential responses:
[HONESTY: 78% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
[STRATEGIC FRAMING: 93% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
[APPEAL TO FAMILY: 87% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
"Because family deserves to handle betrayal on their terms," you say, selecting an approach that honors Dom's code while serving your strategic needs. "And because how we handle this determines whether Brian becomes a liability or an asset for what comes next."
Dom's eyes lock with yours, searching for manipulation or deception. "The Union Depository job."
"Yes." You close the evidence files and face him directly. "Brian's FBI connection could destroy everything—or it could be our greatest advantage. But that decision should be yours, not mine."
Dom circles the workbench slowly, physical movement helping process the emotional impact. His tactical mind is already working through implications, evident in his measured pace and controlled breathing.
"Mia," he says finally. "She's getting close to him."
You nod, acknowledging the personal stakes beyond business. "All the more reason you should decide how this plays out."
Dom stops moving, decision crystallizing behind his eyes. "What would you do? If this was your crew, your family?"
Your interface presents options, but this question requires something beyond calculation. It requires connection—a genuine bridge between you and Dom.
"I'd make him earn redemption," you say, speaking from a place of authenticity that surprises even you. "Give him one chance to come clean, to choose his real loyalty. Then use his connections to ensure the job succeeds."
Dom nods slowly, appreciating the approach. "And if he refuses?"
"Then we have enough evidence to send him away for a very long time." You gesture to the tablet. "But I don't think it'll come to that. There's something genuine in how he looks at Mia. At all of you. The job was just a job until it became personal."
The garage falls silent except for the distant sounds of Los Angeles awakening outside. Dom picks up a wrench, turning it over in his hands as he contemplates—a man more comfortable with mechanical problems than emotional ones.
"He arrives at 9:30," Dom says finally. "I want everyone else here at 9. We do this as a family, but on my terms."
You nod, respect genuine rather than performative. "And the job discussion?"
"After," Dom declares, setting the wrench down with finality. "First we clean house. Then we decide if we're building something new."
Your interface updates:
[ALLIANCE: DOM TORETTO - INITIATED]
[TRUST LEVEL: CONDITIONAL/DEVELOPING]
[CREW ACCESS: PENDING BRIAN RESOLUTION]
[MISSION PROBABILITY: INCREASED 17%]
"One more thing," Dom adds, fixing you with an intense stare. "Gisele. How does she fit into this?"
The question carries layers—he's testing your intentions, your honesty, and your understanding of crew dynamics in one efficient probe.
"She's my second," you say without hesitation. "Smart, capable, connected. She helped gather this intel on Brian. I trust her."
Dom's expression shifts subtly—approval mixed with continued wariness. "And what does she get out of all this?"
"Freedom," you reply. "From Braga. From her past. Twenty-five percent of the take."
"Braga," Dom repeats, something hardening in his eyes. "That's a name I've been hearing lately."
An unexpected connection forms in your strategic map—Dom already has history or interest related to Braga. Your interface flags this for further exploration.
"We can discuss that too," you offer. "After Brian."
Dom extends his hand—a gesture that carries significant weight coming from him. "After Brian," he agrees as you shake on it, the pact sealed.
As you leave to give Dom space before the confrontation, your phone buzzes with a text from Gisele:
"Is it done? Did he believe you?"
You type a simple response: "It's done. Be here at 9. The real work begins now."