The SUV took a soft curve onto a bypass road, engines low and elegant, like a wild animal choosing not to growl.
Inside, the chill was surgical. Not just cool — controlled. Designed. As if the very air had been filtered of dust, scent, and emotion. Every inch of the vehicle had been customized for discretion and clarity. No logos. No stitching. Even the leather had a matte finish, like it refused to reflect back the face of whoever sat inside it.
El Fantasma sat forward now, left elbow resting lightly on the console, fingers working the tablet in silent, gliding motions.
The display opened without a password. It had already recognized the touch. The machine knew who it served.
Three folders.
• Italian Movements
• Internal Loyalty Audit
• Confidential: Veracruz Leak
The Ghost opened the first.
A network map bloomed across the glass, alive with motion — not a static image, but a living stream of intel, connections updating in real time, like veins pulsing beneath synthetic skin. Europe and North America glowed in red veins; the blue ones were satellite markers, shell corp traces, clean trade routes already compromised.
The new red tendril branching down into Mexico was small, but aggressive.
Puebla.
Just two days old.
But already bribing port officials. Already listed as the supplier of four containers that had bypassed inspection and vanished into the Veracruz corridor.
Valentino Moretti didn't knock. He used the freight door.
El tapped the Puebla node.
Three names appeared — middlemen. Disposable. All with no fingerprints in the registry. All paid through a fund connected to Moretti & Caldi, a Geneva-based art dealer with no inventory and a $92 million valuation.
"A provocation," the Ghost murmured.
Across from them, Romero nodded. He hadn't looked at the screen. He didn't need to. His eyes were on El's hands — watching how they moved. Speed. Confidence. Pressure.
"Not careless," Romero said. "Deliberate. Cold."
El flicked to a deeper layer of the Puebla node. Voice samples. Phone pings. Ship manifests. It was like watching a chessboard built from shadows. Every move layered with plausible deniability.
And yet.
There was a rhythm to it. A signature. A tempo that didn't belong to business.
It belonged to a challenge.
"Arrogant," El said.
There was no judgment in the word. In fact, it sounded almost like a compliment.
Romero leaned forward now, elbows on knees. The air shifted with his motion.
"He's testing you. Seeing where the edge is. Trying to step just close enough."
"Close enough to make it personal," El finished.
Romero nodded.
The SUV hit a strip of paved road that made the tires hiss.
"There's a meet in Tijuana. End of the week. Quiet venue. Private estate, off grid. No cameras. No press."
"Intermediaries?"
"Two on his side. One known — Luca, ex-polizia. The other... possibly someone from Bogotá. Or Vatican finance. Depends who you believe."
El closed the Puebla node.
The screen returned to the global map. A slow red pulse beat at the base of Mexico, spreading like a drop of blood in a shallow bowl of water.
"This isn't a feeler," Romero said. "It's the first move."
"He's making a show of restraint," El replied. "That makes him dangerous."
Romero folded his hands.
"They say he respects power. Respects... precision. The way you work."
"Admiration," El said flatly, "is a form of distraction."
Another tap.
The Ghost opened the Loyalty Audit file. Dozens of names scrolled.
Some marked: green for loyal, red for risk, black for already dead.
Others were grayed out — undecided. Watched. Waiting.
The camera inside the SUV's cabin blinked red once. Listening. El reached up and deactivated it with a thumbprint. Some conversations stayed human.
"He might be trying to get close," Romero said. "Close enough to get behind the mask."
El froze.
Not in alarm.
In consideration.
"What then?" Romero asked. "What happens when the wolf looks into the mirror?"
A long silence.
Then: El tapped the final file.
Valentino Moretti's dossier.
A single image filled the screen.
Moretti, stepping off his private jet. One hand holding sunglasses. The other holding nothing — deliberately empty. His tie was off. His sleeves rolled. A rose in his breast pocket. Red. Too red.
El didn't look at the face.
They looked at the hand.
At the deliberate casualness of it. The posture of someone trying to say, I am not afraid.
He was inviting pursuit.
But more than that — he was inviting attention.
"He wants to be understood," El said quietly.
Romero didn't respond.
Because that was the worst kind of enemy.
The kind who didn't want to win.
The kind who wanted to be seen.