The next morning, she woke up earlier than usual, her mind set on what she needed to do. As soon as she picked up her phone, she removed the back cover and opened the SIM card slot. One of the slots remained empty—she had only ever used a single mobile number. But today, that was about to change.
Without hesitation, she walked over to the travel bag she had brought with her. She unzipped it carefully, rummaging through the neatly packed items until she found a small, concealed pouch. Inside, she had stored her undergarments, but what she was really after was hidden deeper within.
Her fingers grazed against a familiar object, and she pulled out a garter that, at first glance, appeared completely ordinary. However, stitched inside was a tiny compartment, barely noticeable to the untrained eye. With practiced ease, she retrieved a micro SIM card from its hidden space, holding it between her fingers for a brief moment before inserting it into her phone.
Once everything was back in place, she powered on her phone and quickly typed out a message. The reply came faster than expected. A soft vibration. An incoming call.
A smile curved her lips as she answered.
"I have no idea what time we got home last night," she said, her voice light, almost amused.
The voice on the other end responded, and she nodded slightly before replying, "Yes, I gave it to Brother Francis before anyone could see it."
She paused in thought before continuing, "I think we should leave him alone for now. He needs time to sort himself out before either of us tries to approach him again."
Leaning back against the headboard, she allowed herself a moment to relax. "As for Uncle Miguel and Louie, I’ll let them do whatever they want for now. If I keep pushing to be involved in Louie’s plans, they might get suspicious. Besides, you're always around them. No matter where they go, you’ll be able to keep an eye on things."
She smirked slightly, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and caution. "Just be careful. You don’t have to worry about me."
With that, she ended the call, staring at her phone for a moment before setting it aside. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, ready to face the rest of the day.
—
By mid-morning, he felt well-rested enough to finally leave home. The streets were alive with their usual rhythm, but he moved at his own pace, unbothered by the flow of people around him.
When he arrived at his destination, a slight frown formed on his face. Something was off. The door to his bar was slightly ajar.
Caution flickered in his gaze. Maybe someone had forgotten to lock up the night before, or maybe there was another reason. Pushing the thought aside, he reached for the doorknob and slowly stepped inside.
He barely had time to register the surroundings before—
A brutal punch slammed into the left side of his jaw.
The force sent him staggering backward, his vision momentarily swimming. His ears rang, the sharp tang of blood filling his mouth. He stumbled, dropping to one knee, but didn’t stay down for long.
"Get up, you bastard!" a furious voice growled at him.
He exhaled sharply, shaking off the dizziness before pushing himself to his feet. The pain in his jaw was dull compared to the sting of his lower lip, which he could already feel was split. A dark stain of blood dripped onto the floor.
Before he could fully regain his footing, his attacker lunged at him again. But this time, he was prepared.
With fluid precision, he dodged to the left, avoiding the next blow. His movements were effortless, practiced. In the same motion, he retaliated, driving his knee into the other man's gut with enough force to knock the wind out of him.
A sharp gasp escaped his attacker as he doubled over in pain.
Straightening his clothes, he walked past the man writhing on the floor, his expression unreadable. But as he moved deeper into the bar, five more men stood waiting, their hands hovering near their waists, ready to draw their weapons.
"If I were you," he said, voice steady, amused even, "I wouldn’t do that."
Before they could react, he lifted both hands—each now holding a gun.
"Lower your weapons," he instructed, smirking. "I’d hate for my hand to slip."
For a tense moment, no one moved. Then, hesitantly, the men began lowering their guns.
All except one.
One man, positioned toward the left, hesitated before making a split-second decision. With quick reflexes, he raised his gun, his finger squeezing the trigger—
A shot rang out.
A scream followed.
His gun hit the floor, his hand now covered in blood. His index finger had been blown clean off.
The remaining men stiffened, their faces drained of color. They hadn’t even seen him take the shot. They had been too focused on his left hand to realize his right had already made its move.
"Anyone else?" he asked, the smirk never leaving his face.
The men took a step back, fear evident in their eyes.
"Take your boss and your friend with you," he ordered.
No one hesitated this time. They hurriedly helped their injured leader and rushed toward the exit.
At the door, the leader turned back, his voice filled with venom. "This isn’t over."
The young man chuckled softly. "I’ll be right here. Anytime you feel like trying again."
As soon as they were gone, he sighed and made his way behind the counter. He carefully unloaded his weapons, placing them back in their rightful places before heading toward the kitchen.
But the moment he stepped inside, he was met with an unexpected sight.
A man was slumped over a table, arms folded under his head as if using them as a pillow. His breathing was slow and steady, clearly deep in sleep. The faint sound of music leaked from his headset, playing loud enough that calling out to him would be pointless.
Annoyed, he reached out and gave the man's shoulder a shake.
The sleeping figure barely reacted, groaning and swatting his hand away like an annoying fly.
He tried again. Another dismissive wave.
His patience wearing thin, he grabbed a nearby pot and let it crash to the floor.
The loud clang jolted the sleeping man awake.
With a start, he sat up, eyes filled with irritation. "Quel est votre problème? Tu ne vois pas que je dors?!" he snapped in French. ("What’s your problem? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?!")
But as he took in his surroundings, his expression shifted from anger to confusion.
"Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my bar?" the young man demanded, arms crossed.
Before the other could respond, the sudden sound of gunfire erupted outside.
Within seconds, bullets rained down inside the bar.