《A Wolf in the Mafia》 Chapter 1 The living room boasted an unmistakable mark of luxury and elegance. Walls were covered with rich, sumptuous burgundy wallpaper bearing intricate designs, and heavy, velvet drapes, held back by ornate tiebacks, allowed a flash of neon lights to filter through the room. A commanding fireplace dominated one wall of the room, its mantelpiece ornamented by gilded frames supporting the stern features of ancestors. The flames danced and warmed the room. Antique pieces lay carefully placed on the rich hardwood floor. Mahogany tables held delicate porcelain trinkets. Soft armchairs with intricately carved legs glowed faintly and offered comfort. A great piano stood in one corner. Its shiny surface caught the dim light and set the mood. Amidst this Victorian splendor, a figure stood by the colossal window and looked over the sprawling city below. The Boss wore a tailored suit and a silk cravat. His commanding presence cast a formidable silhouette against the city lights. Heavy brocade curtains framed the window. It opened onto red-light streets, dark alleys, and distant spires that seemed to pierce the heavens. The Boss stood in contemplation beyond the city''s nocturnal symphony. He clasped his hands behind his back. The amber glow from the fireplace flickered on his stern face and revealed a man of authority and sharp calculation. His gaze pierced the glass. He surveyed the streets where shadows performed their nightly masquerade. The air carried the scent of burning wood and the distant hum of the city''s nocturnal activities. The Boss narrowed his eyes and searched for secrets hidden in the city''s winding streets. Each flicker of the lamps below mirrored the intricate workings of power and control. He ruled that realm. "You may be wondering why I called you here." The Boss spoke in a measured tone that cut through the room¡¯s tension. Clavius gulped. His thoughts swirled with apprehension as he second-guessed every recent action. "Relax, Clavius. You haven''t erred," the Boss said. "I remember when you rescued me. You were just an orphan caught in the crossfire." His voice carried the weight of gratitude and memory. His mind drifted to a distant night. A rival gang hid their sinister intentions in the shadows. They ambushed him on a winding boulevard. Bullets whizzed through the smoky haze and struck their targets with a sickening thud. The Boss winced as searing pain from a bullet wound shot through him and threatened to claim him. The scent of blood mixed with burnt gunpowder in the chaotic crossfire. Loyal bodyguards fell one by one. Bullets cut their final moments short. The Boss felt the weight of imminent danger. He had no choice but to flee. His hurried footsteps echoed against the cold walls of a narrow alley. He sought refuge in the dark corners of the alley. Damp air filled his lungs. Thick shadows hid him but also threatened him. Water dripped from unseen leaks and created an eerie rhythm. Cold bricks pressed against his hands and heightened his urgency. Wounded and weak, he stumbled and collapsed onto a heap of discarded refuse. Darkness closed in around him. A young Clavius moved through the streets. He was a scrappy figure surviving in a cruel world. He rummaged through the trash and unknowingly found the injured Boss. The Boss, now telling the story, remembered what happened next. He saw the shadows of the rival gang approaching. In that desperate moment, Clavius became his unwitting ally. "Hey, kid." One of the gangsters stepped closer and eyed him with a predatory glint. "Did you see a bleeding guy run this way? Where did he go?"Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Clavius did not hesitate. He raised his hand and pointed in the opposite direction. He unknowingly sealed a fate yet to unfold. His false trail led to the busy main highway. In the stillness of the present, the Boss let the memories play before him. The ember of his cigar cast a flickering glow on his weathered face. Smoke curled in the air as he recalled the unlikely savior who had stepped from the shadows of that alley. In the depths of memory, Clavius returned to a time when the city was a maze of hardship. He was just a child searching for survival among the discarded scraps of others. He remembered the morning after that fateful encounter with the Boss. The sun rose and painted the horizon with warm hues. A faint glow touched the litter-strewn alley. As Clavius sifted through the remains of a broken world, a sleek black limousine appeared. It cut through the familiar rhythm of his struggling life. A man in a sharp suit stepped from the backseat. His presence radiated refinement against the gritty streets. "Boy." The man''s voice cut through the waking city''s noise. The young scavenger hesitated. Confusion filled his eyes as he stepped closer. He stared at the man''s wealth in awe. "Get in the limo." Clavius did not fully understand. Yet, he stepped forward. He left behind the only world he had ever known. Inside the luxurious vehicle, shadows hid a figure in the back seat. The Boss remained concealed. The air carried an unspoken weight. The man gestured toward the plush seat across from him. "Sit, little boy." He held out a small sandwich. Clavius, bewildered, stared at the offering. The Boss sat in the dimly lit space and watched. Clavius hesitated, then took the food. The moment stood still. A silent bridge formed between two worlds. The memory flickered. Back in the present, the Boss broke the silence. "That day you saved my life, you became my son." The Boss spoke. His words carried weight and filled the room. He turned slightly and locked eyes with Clavius. His gaze held the gravity of the moment. "I have a mission for you." His voice cut through the silence. "My daughter is missing. You may not share blood, but she is still your sister. I need you to find her." Clavius lowered his eyes to the coffee table. Pictures lay scattered like pieces of a broken puzzle. Among them, a woman''s face stood out. Her features were soft and beautiful. Her golden hair fell in long, straight strands. The images carried an unspoken urgency. The room felt heavy with silent pleas. The weight of responsibility wrapped around Clavius like a familiar cloak. He took a deep breath. His fingers brushed against the photographs on the coffee table. He straightened with quiet determination. He turned toward the two men standing near the room¡¯s entrance. ¡°Elias, Vincent,¡± Clavius called. His voice carried the calm authority he had honed over the years. The two men stepped forward, awaiting their orders. ¡°You know how we operate. Subtle, efficient.¡± Clavius gathered the photographs into a neat stack before passing one to each of them. ¡°Deliver the message.¡± Elias, a wiry man with sharp features, nodded. ¡°Who do you want me to contact?¡± ¡°Send an encrypted email to Dante. Keep it brief. Just enough to make him understand the urgency.¡± Elias smirked. ¡°Dante likes puzzles. I¡¯ll make sure he gets the hint.¡± Clavius turned to Vincent, a broader man with a quiet demeanor. ¡°For you, the old-fashioned way. Drop a letter in Alistair¡¯s mailbox. Handwritten. No electronic trail.¡± Vincent gave a curt nod. ¡°Understood.¡± Clavius stepped away from the coffee table and adjusted his coat. ¡°I have somewhere to be.¡± Elias raised an eyebrow. ¡°Where?¡± Clavius smirked. ¡°Visiting an old friend.¡± Chapter 2 Dante was born in the forgotten back alley of the city. The neon lights spilled over the streets in a sparse manner. Only the desperate heard the whispers they exchanged. His mother had passed away when he was a child. His father did not care for him. The man spent more time piling up debt than he did raising a son. Dante found solace in the things that made sense. He clung to patterns, logic, and order. As a child, he spent hours taking apart broken radios and cracked alarm clocks. He took apart whatever he could get his hands on. He was astounded at how the pieces fit. A machine could be brought to life with the right gears and wires. His father never caught him when he snuck out to the old abandoned warehouse beyond their house. There, Dante discovered old computer parts. They were rusted but functional. By the age of thirteen, he had assembled his first working machine from scraps. It wasn''t electronics that held his interest¡ªpuzzles in general. Ciphered messages, ancient code-breaking methods, and riddles that are hidden in textbooks. Words were not needed when symbols and numbers said more. Dante became a man of contrasts. Lean and tall, with an angular face that was never quite fully in the light, his dark eyes had an intensity that disturbed others. His black hair was always slightly disheveled as if he had more important things to do than worry about appearances. He dressed in muted tones¡ªgray, black, deep navy¡ªpreferring function over style.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. His hands were slender and calloused from years of typing and tinkering. He could tear apart the most complex encryption with ease. He could also reassemble the most delicate mechanism. He spoke only when necessary. His words were measured and deliberate. Some saw his silence as coldness. Those who knew him understood the truth. Dante was not disinterested in people. He simply preferred to listen. He analyzed everything. He searched for the missing pieces. By his twenties, Dante moved like a ghost in the digital world. Firewalls fell before him. Databases opened like diary pages. Encrypted messages unraveled with little effort. No security system could keep him out. No network could resist his skills. Organizations hunted him. Some wanted his talents. Others wanted to erase a threat. He remained elusive, choosing his alliances carefully. For Clavius, he was more than just a hacker¡ªhe was an architect of information, a puzzle master who could make problems disappear or surface at just the right time. And now, as he received the encrypted email from Elias, his lips curled slightly at the challenge presented to him. A missing woman, a city full of hidden dangers, and a game that required his particular expertise. Dante leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the desk as code flickered across multiple monitors. This would be interesting. Chapter 3 His father worked as a bounty hunter. He lived and died by the gun before Alistair turned ten. His mother raised him alone. She was a woman of wisdom. She taught him patience. She instilled discipline. She showed him the value of knowledge. As a child, Alistair''s hands grew familiar with the cold metal of a gun. His obsession was his father''s old revolver. It was too heavy for a boy. He practiced every day and night. He drew, aimed, and fired at makeshift targets in the open fields. By fifteen, he could shoot faster than any grown man in town. Accuracy became his religion. One shot. One kill. Others in his town saw guns as tools for survival. Alistair saw them as instruments of precision. They were an extension of himself. He never wasted a bullet. Each shot had a purpose. He never fired in anger. Then came the night he lost his eye. It was a job gone wrong, an ambush in a crumbling saloon. A bullet meant for his skull grazed his right eye instead, leaving him half-blind and forever changed. He should have died, but instead, something awakened in him¡ªa sense beyond sight. He learned to listen to the air, to feel the presence of a target before they moved. Some called it instinct, others luck, but Alistair believed in something deeper. His interest in the mysterious started then. In his recovery, he applied himself to the study of ancient magic, the mystic arts, and lost texts on psychic activity. He read ancient texts of rituals, telepathy, control of energy¡ªanything that hinted at the possibility that there was power other than in the physical realm. He was convinced that if one could control his mind to an unimaginable extent, even a blind man would be able to see.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Alistair stayed as sharp as the weapon he carried. He stood tall and wiry. Years of precise movement shaped his body. Unwavering control defined him. His face held the rugged handsomeness of a man who had seen too much. His left eye shone icy blue and cut through lies. His right eye was long gone. A black leather eyepatch covered it. He wore it with the quiet pride of a survivor. His hair was once golden. It had faded to a pale, ashen blonde. His gunslinging skills remained unmatched. He hit moving targets from impossible distances. He shot the wings off a fly. He reloaded faster than most men could blink. He favored revolvers. They were sleek, polished, and deadly. He never carried more than necessary. He believed skill mattered more than excess. Alistair was a deadly man. He was an enigma to those around him. He spent hours on the range. He practiced incessantly or sat slumped across dusty tomes. He scratched symbols across the pages of his palms. He muttered words in forgotten tongues. Some thought him mad. Others believed he might uncover something. When the letter arrived in his mailbox, he knew who it was from before even opening it. Clavius. A call to action. Alistair sighed, tucking the letter into his coat. A missing woman. A tangled web of power. And perhaps, somewhere in the darkness of the city, a secret waiting to be uncovered. Chapter 4 The mansion towered as a monument to excess. Its grand halls held gilded edges and intricate murals. The paintings depicted ancient myths. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over the high-vaulted ceilings. Their crystals shimmered like stardust. Wealth did not make Conan¡¯s home remarkable. The creatures that roamed its opulent corridors did. Cats of all sizes and breeds filled the mansion. They lounged on velvet cushions. They slinked between marble columns. They curled up on embroidered tapestries. Sleek Siamese perched on mahogany bookshelves. Their watchful eyes gleamed. A massive Maine Coon stretched across an antique piano. Its tail flicked idly. The true rulers of the house moved with regal grace. A panther reclined on a raised platform. It licked its ebony paws with slow ease. Two golden-eyed lynxes rested atop the grand staircase. They watched the world below like silent sentinels. A silver-maned lion lounged by the fireplace. Its deep purring rumbled like distant thunder. Conan sat among the untamed elegance. He reclined in a lush leather armchair. He wore a silk robe embroidered with symbols from forgotten civilizations. He swirled a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He watched his feline companions with quiet amusement. The doorbell rang. A deep chime echoed through the mansion¡¯s halls. The lion by the fire flicked an ear but stayed still. Conan exhaled slowly. He seemed reluctant to be disturbed. His butler stepped into the doorway. He was an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard. He carried an air of unshakable composure. "Sir, you have a visitor." Conan sighed, setting his glass aside. He already knew who it was. He had expected this visit. "Let him in," he said, his voice rich and unhurried. The butler gave a small nod and left down the hall. Moments later, Clavius stepped inside. His sharp eyes scanned the mansion¡¯s feline inhabitants. His face showed no surprise. He had stopped questioning Conan¡¯s eccentricities long ago. Conan¡¯s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the side. "Well, well. The Old Dog comes sniffing at my door." His voice carried the warmth of nostalgia, yet beneath it, the sharp edge of knowing. He gestured toward the seat across from him, his fingers adorned with rings that caught the firelight. "Come, Clavius. Tell me why you''ve come." Conan was born into unimaginable wealth. He was the only son of an oil magnate and a gambling baroness. His father, Victor Moreau, built an empire from black gold. His mother, Lady Evangeline Moreau, ruled the gambling world. Her influence stretched across continents. Together, they ruled a kingdom of excess. Power was the only true currency. Conan grew up in luxury. Crystal chandeliers lit marble halls. Endless banquets filled the nights. Men whispered of fortunes and feuds. None of it fascinated him. He cared nothing for politics. Businessmen did not interest him. He saw only false smiles and hidden daggers. It was the cats that captured his soul. At the age of eight, Conan made a discovery that would define his life. He could speak to cats. He did not train them like pets. He spoke to them like old friends. When he called, they answered. When he listened, they spoke. It was a gift. It was rare and inexplicable. An unspoken language connected him to the creatures of the night. His father prepared him for boardrooms. His mother groomed him for the world of vice. Conan spent his days with his feline companions. He understood them better than people. Their eyes flickered with unspoken secrets. Their gestures formed a silent code. They moved between worlds unnoticed and unseen. Then, one fateful night, the world he had known was reduced to nothing. His parents had many enemies. None were more dangerous than the Ravini Family. This rival mafia syndicate had long sought to dismantle the Moreau dynasty. They struck with precision. They poisoned Victor and Evangeline during a high-profile gala. The glasses shattered. The screams rang out. It was already too late. The Moreau empire fell into chaos. Conan, only sixteen, was left with nothing. For weeks, he vanished, slipping between alleyways and shadows, surviving on the streets as his inheritance was divided like carrion among vultures. But grief was not his companion¡ªrage was. He learned that the Ravini Family had a hidden operation at the docks, smuggling exotic animals¡ªlions, tigers, panthers, beasts meant to be sold into a cruel underground market. It was there, in the darkened warehouse by the sea, that Conan set his plan into motion. He moved like a ghost, slipping past guards, unlocking cages, whispering words of liberation into the ears of creatures bred for captivity. When the first gunshot rang out, the jungle was unleashed upon the city.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. The Ravini smugglers never stood a chance. The lions roared, their claws tearing through flesh, their fangs sinking into the throats of their captors. Tigers pounced from the shadows, panthers struck like assassins, and Conan¡ªclad in black, eyes alight with vengeance¡ªwalked among them as their king. The slaughter was swift, brutal, and absolute. By dawn, the Ravini docks were drenched in blood, their men ripped apart like prey. The legend of the "Feral Prince" spread like wildfire, and before long, Conan didn¡¯t need to seize power¡ªit was given to him. Men whispered his name in fear, but none dared to challenge him. Over the years, Conan built an empire of his own, not in oil or cards, but in crime. He controlled the underworld through strategy, intimidation, and a force no man could counter¡ªhis feline army. He moved with the grace of a panther and struck with the precision of a tiger. And unlike the others who ruled with greed and ambition, Conan cared only for one thing: loyalty. It was through this rise that he met Mr. Rofford, a man as cunning as he was powerful. They recognized something in each other¡ªa mutual understanding of control, of power, of the delicate balance between civilization and the wild. An alliance was formed. Then came Clavius. A boy not unlike himself, shaped by loss, forged in hardship. Conan saw in him a potential few others did. He took the boy under his wing, teaching him not just how to survive, but how to rule. He taught him the art of deception, the psychology of control, and the elegance of organized crime. "People are like cats, Clavius," Conan once told him. "They pretend to be independent, but all of them will kneel for the right master." Now, years later, as Clavius stood at his doorstep once more, Conan smirked, sipping his drink as his lions prowled in the firelight. He had taught the boy well. And now, it seemed, the Old Dog had come back for another lesson. The grand fireplace crackled with slow-burning embers, casting shifting shadows across the lavish chamber. The scent of aged whiskey and exotic incense hung in the air, mingling with the faint musk of feline presence. A sleek black panther lounged lazily near Conan¡¯s chair, its golden eyes half-lidded in contentment. A pair of lynxes sprawled across the rug like living statues, ears twitching at every small noise. Clavius sat across from Conan in a deep leather chair, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. The two men had seen much together, survived wars waged in the underworld, and emerged sharper for it. "Remember the warehouse job?" Conan mused, rolling his glass in his palm. His robe shimmered with embroidered golden patterns, shifting like a liquid under the dim light. "The one near the old train yards?" Clavius let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "How could I forget? Your damn panther scared the hell out of everyone. Those idiots thought the place was haunted when they heard growling from the shadows." Conan smirked, brushing his fingers through the thick mane of the lion resting beside his chair. "I still remember the look on that poor bastard¡¯s face when she leaped at him. He screamed like a dying violin." Clavius took a slow sip of his drink. "And then there was the casino brawl. That one got messy." "Messy?" Conan arched a brow. "Clavius, you flipped a man over a baccarat table and sent him crashing into the chandelier. That wasn¡¯t messy¡ªthat was art." Clavius exhaled through his nose, amused. For a moment, it was easy to forget why he had come, lost in the nostalgia of old battles, old victories. But the weight of his mission pressed on him like a phantom hand on his shoulder. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Conan¡­ I need your help." His voice carried the weight of urgency. Conan¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but the way his fingers drummed idly against his glass spoke volumes. "I figured as much." He leaned back, stretching like a cat at rest but never off-guard. "Tell me." Clavius reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. He placed it on the polished table between them. The soft glow of the firelight illuminated the face of Mr. Rofford¡¯s daughter. "She¡¯s missing." Clavius'' voice was low. "Taken, possibly. I don¡¯t have enough leads yet, but I know the longer we wait, the worse this gets." Conan picked up the photo, studying the delicate features of the woman in the image. His expression didn¡¯t betray much, but his grip on the picture tightened slightly. He had known Mr. Rofford for years. The man was not easily shaken, but a missing daughter? That was enough to turn even a king into a desperate father. "And you came to me because¡­?" Conan asked, though he already knew the answer. "Because no one knows this city¡¯s underbelly like you do," Clavius replied. "You have ears where others don¡¯t. And more importantly, if there¡¯s a deal being made, a ransom, or a trade, someone in your circles will hear about it." Conan exhaled through his nose, setting the photograph down with a quiet tap of his fingers. "A lost daughter of an old friend¡­ And now the Old Dog comes asking for a favor." He smirked slightly, though there was no real mirth behind it. He swirled his drink once before downing the rest in one smooth motion. Then, without hesitation, he nodded. "I¡¯ll help you, Clavius." The panther at his feet lifted its head as if sensing the shift in the air. "I¡¯ll have my people put out feelers, and my cats will watch the streets. If she¡¯s still in this city, we¡¯ll find her." Conan¡¯s gaze darkened, his smirk fading into something more serious. "And if someone has taken her¡­ well, they¡¯ll wish they hadn¡¯t." Clavius met his gaze, knowing full well what that meant. "Good," he said simply. "Then let¡¯s begin." Chapter 5 The restaurant stood as a palace of excess. Fortunes disappeared in one night. Gilded chandeliers poured a warm, golden light across the room. Crystal prisms cast little rainbows upon the walls that were draped with velvet. A string quartet played in the corner. The quiet melody spun through the air, like a shared secret. Waiters in crisp white jackets moved silently among the marble-topped tables. Their steps remained unspoken and deliberate. Gold-rimmed china and crystal goblets stood at each table. Candles twinkled like far-off stars. Conan reclined in a rich leather booth in the rear of the room. He idly spun a glass of wine between his fingers. Wearing a silk vest of dark green color, it was embroidered with golden filigree in fine patterns. A long, fitted coat flowed over his shoulders, its lining deep crimson. A fine gold chain lay lightly upon his breast, vanishing under the vest. His face bore an air of trained amusement as if all around him existed for his own amusement. Seated beside him was Clavius, personifying still attention. Wearing a crisp black suit, he projected an aura of keen precision¡ªwithout unnecessary adornment and excess. His posture was exactly upright, hands clasped upon the table in front of him. His sharp eyes glanced toward the entrance, watchfully waiting. The restaurant doors creaked open, and Alistair entered first. He walked with the slow swagger of a man who had nothing to prove. Over his head was a well-worn long coat; the edges were frayed, but its shape was intact. This was a relic of a bygone era that he stubbornly refused to shed. Below, a plain button-up shirt and dark vest clung to his wiry body. A revolver rode in a streamlined holster at his hip, always within easy reach. A black leather eyepatch covered his right eye, giving him a look of quiet menace. But the faint curve of a smile at his lips gave away a glint of amusement. Dante followed. His presence was more shadow than man. He dressed in muted tones¡ªa charcoal-gray turtleneck, a tailored overcoat, and gloves so thin they felt like a second skin. His hair lay neatly combed back. His sharp features showed little emotion. Where Alistair moved with lazy confidence, Dante moved with precision. His eyes scanned the room in an instant before settling on their waiting hosts.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Alistair sauntered toward the table, tilting his head as he regarded Conan. ¡°Y¡¯know,¡± he drawled, ¡°for a man who grew up with a silver spoon, you sure know how to waste money.¡± Conan smirked, lifting his glass. ¡°And for a man who dresses like a drifter, you sure know how to walk into fine establishments like you belong.¡± Alistair slid into the seat across from him, drumming his fingers against the table. ¡°You insultin¡¯ my coat? This thing has history.¡± Conan chuckled, swirling his wine. ¡°So does the dust collecting on it.¡± Dante sat beside Alistair without a word. He gave Clavius a silent nod. Alistair leaned back, arms draping lazily over the back of the booth. ¡°So, what¡¯s the occasion? Or did you just want to make sure we remembered you have better taste than the rest of us?¡± Conan set his glass down with a quiet clink, his smirk never wavering. ¡°Oh, Alistair. If I wanted to remind you of that, I¡¯d invite you to my private estate.¡± Clavius, ever the pragmatist, exhaled sharply. ¡°We¡¯re here for business. Let¡¯s not waste time.¡± Dante nodded, his voice low and measured. ¡°Agreed.¡± Alistair sighed, reaching for the menu. ¡°Fine, fine. But I¡¯m orderin¡¯ the most expensive damn thing on this menu. If I gotta sit through one of Conan¡¯s monologues, I might as well do it on a full stomach.¡± Conan¡¯s smirk widened as he leaned forward. ¡°Oh, my dear gunslinger, I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡± Chapter 6 The air reeked with the smell of wet asphalt. The distant hum of the city pulsed beneath the stormy sky. Clavius stood under a flickering streetlamp, his greatcoat flapping in the cold night air. This is where it started. Here, he recruited the deadliest, the most brilliant, and the most unstable men he could locate. The First Piece: Dante It started with Dante. A digital ghost. A cipher in the city''s bloodstream. His name whispered in dark corners, spoken only by those who understood his worth. Clavius had spent months tracking him down¡ªhis electronic fingerprints led to dead ends, and his past was a mirage. But Clavius had something most others didn¡¯t: patience. When he finally found him, Dante was seated in the back of a near-empty jazz club, hands clasped over a small puzzle cube, rotating its pieces with the precision of a machine. The glow of neon signs reflected in his sharp eyes. "You¡¯ve been looking for me," Dante had said without looking up. "And you let me find you," Clavius responded. A small smirk played at the edges of Dante¡¯s lips. "Perhaps I wanted to see if you were worth finding." They spoke in measured words, both men valuing silence over excess. Clavius laid out his vision¡ªan operation unlike any before it, a team assembled not just for their skills but for the way they fit together like pieces of a grand machine. "You see the world like a puzzle," Clavius had told him. "I need someone who can see the pieces others overlook." Dante had studied him for a long moment, then, with a final twist, completed the cube in his hands. "I''m in." The Second Piece: Alistair Alistair wasn¡¯t a man you found. He was a man who found you. When Clavius arrived in a dusty, no-name town on the outskirts of civilization, he wasn¡¯t there to drink or gamble. He was there for the man with the one eye, the one they called the Deadeye Ghost. The saloon was dim, the air thick with cigar smoke and bad decisions. A poker game was in session. Alistair sat at the head of the table, his fingers tapping idly against the worn surface, his revolver resting beside his drink¡ªan unspoken warning. The man across from him was sweating, hands shaking as he realized just who he was gambling against. "Your move," Alistair had murmured. Clavius watched as the poor fool made his bet. He watched Alistair watch him, like a predator amused by the struggle of its prey. The man lost, of course. And when he reached for his gun, he never had the chance to pull it. Alistair moved so fast that Clavius barely saw it happen¡ªthe revolver spun into his grip in a fluid motion, the hammer clicked, and in the next breath, the man was slumped against the table, a bullet hole between his eyes. Clavius approached as the rest of the saloon held its collective breath. "I could use someone like you," he said. Alistair took a slow sip of his drink, then wiped his mouth. "You huntin¡¯ men or ghosts, stranger?" "Both." Alistair grinned. "Then I reckon I¡¯m your guy." The Final Piece: Conan Finding Conan wasn¡¯t difficult. Gaining his allegiance? That was another matter. Clavius had walked into the grand estate surrounded by prowling shadows¡ªlions, panthers, tigers, all watching him with golden, knowing eyes. And in the center of it all, reclining like a king upon a throne of velvet, sat Conan. "Ah, the prodigy himself," Conan mused, swirling a goblet of wine. "Tell me, Clavius, what could possibly bring you to my door?" "I need a man who understands power. A man who can move between worlds." "And why should I be interested in your little crusade?" Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Clavius had expected the question. He had expected Conan¡¯s disinterest. And so he did what few would have dared¡ªhe stepped closer to one of the great tigers resting near Conan¡¯s chair and placed a hand upon its head. The beast growled low in its throat, but Clavius didn¡¯t flinch. "Because," he said calmly, "you''re the only one in this city who doesn¡¯t fear me. That makes you invaluable." Conan chuckled. "You do know how to flatter a man." He leaned forward, his gaze appraising. "Very well, Clavius. Let¡¯s see if you¡¯re as good as they say." The Team Was Born And so, the pieces came together¡ªDante, the enigmatic genius; Alistair, the deadly gunslinger; Conan, the untamed king. The city never slept, but it certainly had its quiet moments. In those moments, in the spaces between shadows and the neon glow, Clavius built his plans. The Execution Squad moved fast. Too fast. They saw the target¡ªMayor Leclerc, the silver-tongued politician who ruled his city with the iron grip of a drug kingpin¡ªand drew their blades before understanding the battlefield. Half of them died. The rest wished they had. Clavius sat in a dimly lit room. He steepled his fingers, eyes locked on the display of Dante¡¯s laptop. The hacker sat motionless. His gaze reflected the pale blue glow of cascading files. Mayor Leclerc¡¯s life unraveled in data¡ªencrypted emails, transaction records, private security feeds. Dante heard every digital whisper. "The Execution Squad wasn¡¯t sloppy," Dante murmured, scrolling through lines of code. "They were expected." Clavius¡¯ gaze sharpened. "Expected?" Dante tapped a key, pulling up an intercepted message. It was sent before the Execution Squad ever made their move. A warning, delivered straight to the Mayor¡¯s personal network. "He has his own eyes and ears. A secret police force embedded within his administration. They knew every step before it happened." Across the city, a man screamed. Alistair rolled his shoulder, flexing his fingers as he watched the Mayor¡¯s aide-de-camp dangle from the ceiling beam, tied at the wrists, blood pooling beneath him. The gunslinger took his time, leaning against the wall, the end of his revolver still smoking from the last round. "So let me get this straight," Alistair drawled, tipping his hat back. "You knew exactly when the Squad was coming. You funneled them into a kill box, and now you think I won¡¯t put another bullet in your kneecap if you don¡¯t tell me who tipped you off?" The aide-de-camp spat blood. "You¡¯re already dead, cowboy. You just don¡¯t know it yet." Alistair grinned, spinning the revolver effortlessly in his hand. "You fellas always say that." He pulled the trigger. The man screamed again. Meanwhile, the streets belonged to Conan. Feral eyes glinted from alleyways. Slender forms slunk between parked cars, leaped over fences and climbed drainpipes. People ignored street cats. They were part of the scenery, easy to overlook. But Conan saw them for what they were¡ªwatchers, spies. Every window, every rooftop, every fire escape had a silent observer. Conan sat on the steps of an abandoned theater, absently scratching the chin of a black panther that purred beside him. Across the street, one of his scouts¡ªa mangy orange tabby¡ªleaped onto the hood of a car. Conan smirked. "Found you, little rats." The secret police thought they were shadows. Conan¡¯s spies lived in the shadows. By the time the full picture came together, Clavius was three steps ahead. Dante had the city¡¯s security feeds in the palm of his hand. Every patrol route, every alarm system, every emergency line¡ªtheir target was naked before them. Alistair had personally ensured that no last-minute warnings would be sent. Conan¡¯s feline network had marked every movement of the secret police. It was time to move. The assault was swift. Brutal. Alistair¡¯s gunfire erupted in the night, precise and merciless. The secret police had numbers, but numbers meant nothing when a man could shoot faster than they could think. One by one, they fell, their silencers never leaving their holsters. By the time the last of them hit the ground, Alistair was already walking away, reloading without looking. Inside the Mayor¡¯s estate, Clavius moved like a phantom. Security systems were frozen¡ªDante¡¯s work. Every camera showed empty halls. Every alarm was silenced before it had a chance to scream. The Mayor sat in his study, sipping expensive cognac, convinced he was untouchable. He was dead before the glass hit the floor. Clavius didn¡¯t waste words. A single bullet, placed clean between the eyes. No grand speeches. No threats. Just silence. The team left without fanfare, fading into the night like ghosts. By morning, Mayor Leclerc was a corpse. His secret police was wiped from existence. And in a private warehouse across town, twenty million in gold bars sat in pristine stacks, reflecting the dim glow of the overhead lights. Alistair whistled, running a hand along one of the bars. "That¡¯s a lot of money." Conan smirked. "That¡¯s a lot of dead men¡¯s money." Dante adjusted his gloves. "The Execution Squad will take this as an insult." Clavius, standing at the head of it all, only smiled. "Let them." Clavius had forged them into something greater than just men with skills. He had made them into a force that could shake the very foundation of the underworld. As he sat in the restaurant now, surrounded by these men, he realized one thing: The game had only just begun. Chapter 7 The private lounge stayed quiet. Glass clinked against glass. Cigar smoke coiled through the air, drifting beneath the dim chandelier. Heavy curtains blocked the city''s noise. Only the four men remained, seated in a circle, plotting in the silence between their words. Clavius leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. His sharp eyes swept the room. He measured each of his companions. "We need to be smart about this," he said, voice cool, deliberate. "Mr. Rofford¡¯s daughter didn¡¯t just vanish¡ªsomeone made her disappear. That means someone out there knows where she is." Dante, perched in his usual corner like a shadow given form, nodded slightly. His expression betrayed nothing. "Any leads?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur. Clavius exhaled slowly. "Not yet. But we start the way we always do¡ªpull the strings until something snaps." Across from him, Conan swirled a glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light. His long coat draped over his chair, one of his gloved hands idly tapping against the armrest. A cat¡ªsome sleek, well-groomed thing with golden fur¡ªcurled up beside him, purring. "Kidnapping isn¡¯t a common business these days," Conan mused. "If they wanted ransom, we¡¯d have heard something by now. If they wanted revenge, there¡¯d be a body." "Maybe they just want her out of the picture," Alistair offered, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. "I mean, sure, maybe she¡¯s dead. Maybe she¡¯s tied up in some basement. Either way, someone went to a lot of trouble to make her disappear clean." "You always this cheerful, cowboy?" Conan smirked, raising an eyebrow. Alistair grinned, tipping his hat back. "Just sayin¡¯. I like to keep my expectations realistic." "That¡¯s funny, coming from a man who thinks magic tricks and mind-reading are real." Conan¡¯s smirk widened. "What was it last time? A book about ancient Lumerian curses?" "History is important," Alistair shot back. "Unlike whatever book you¡¯ve been readin¡¯ to convince yourself you¡¯re a damn cat whisperer." The golden-furred cat in Conan¡¯s lap flicked its tail. Conan scratched behind its ear. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. "I don¡¯t need a book, cowboy," he said smoothly. "I was born special." Alistair scoffed. "Sure you were." "Enough." Clavius¡¯ voice cut clean through the air, silencing both men instantly. His gaze, cold and unwavering, settled between them. "We¡¯re not here to debate history or animal behavior." He leaned back, folding his arms. "We¡¯re here because Rofford¡¯s daughter is missing, and we¡¯re the only ones who can find her before she disappears for good." Dante, silent until now, turned to Clavius. "Where do we start?" Clavius glanced at him. "Dante, you¡¯ll do what you do best. I want every piece of digital evidence¡ªbank records, messages, hidden transactions. If someone got close enough to take her, they left a trace somewhere." Dante gave a small nod. "Understood." "Alistair, I need you in the streets. We shake the right people and see who talks. Start with the docks¡ªRofford¡¯s enemies move their filth through there." Alistair cracked his knuckles. "Can¡¯t wait." "And Conan," Clavius turned his attention to the gambler, "your little spies¡ªcats, informants, whatever you want to call them¡ªspread the word. Someone must have seen something." Conan smiled, swirling his drink again. "Oh, they¡¯ll talk." Clavius let the moment settle before standing. His presence alone commanded their attention. "This isn¡¯t just another job," he said. "This is family. We don¡¯t stop until we have her back." No one argued. The plan was in motion. The night wore on. Neon lights glowed along rain-soaked streets. The four men left the restaurant and out into the cold of night. They didn''t take their leave. They exchanged short nods and vanished into the city. Each man went his separate way. Dante went by himself. His hands stayed in his coat pockets. His breath clouded in the air like smoke. He wandered through the streets like a ghost. No eyes watched him. No ears heard him. A quiet hotel sat at the edge of the city. Its vacancy sign buzzed in the night. He paid in cash. He took the key without speaking. He climbed the stairs to his room. Inside, he locked the door. He set his laptop on the desk. He leaned on the window. The city pulsed below. A web of secrets was there to be unwound. Alistair and Clavius walked with purpose. Their steps echoed down empty streets. They moved side by side. The weight of the night pressed between them. The docks rose ahead. Wooden piers stretched into black water. Ships creaked in their moorings. The scent of salt and oil filled the air. A few men loitered near the cargo crates. Shadows shifted under dim security lights. Alistair and Clavius stopped at the edge of the pier. They watched. They waited. The job had begun. Conan took another path. He moved through the tangled veins of the city''s alleys. He slipped between rusted fire escapes and crumbling brick walls. He moved like a man who belonged in the shadows. The alley ahead glowed under a distant streetlamp. Silent figures stirred within it. Cats lounged atop garbage cans. They prowled through the darkness or watched with knowing eyes. Conan crouched low. His voice came as a soft murmur. ¡°I have a job for you.¡± The cats listened. Chapter 8 The hotel room was still full of silence. The soft hum of Dante''s laptop filled the air. The light of the screen formed harsh shadows on his face. He plugged in the hard drive. The old files came to life in a flash. Swirls of encrypted information danced in front of his eyes. Where others saw chaos, Dante saw a key. He leaned back. His fingers moved with practiced ease. He broke through firewalls like paper doors. The city''s security network spread before him. A vast web of live feeds streamed from every street, every alley, every hidden corner. He exhaled slowly. The screens popped in one by one. Clavius had called him out for staying behind that night. "You risked everything for a locked safe? For what?" Clavius¡¯s voice had been sharp, edged with irritation. He hadn¡¯t understood. None of them had. But now? Now, what Dante had stolen was about to pay off. A thousand eyes stared back at him from the screen. He scanned through them, sifting through the city¡¯s pulse, searching. A few minutes passed. Then¡ªthere. A figure. A moment. A lead. Dante¡¯s lips curled into a smirk. "Bingo." Rain dripped from the rusted beams above, pooling on the dock¡¯s splintered planks. The tide groaned beneath them, black water slapping against the pylons. The gang boss slumped against a stack of shipping crates, blood trailing from his split lip onto his torn jacket. His breath came ragged, his good eye flicking between the two men standing before him. Clavius crouched low, meeting the man¡¯s gaze with the quiet patience of a predator. His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a knife, its tip glinting in the dim light. "You¡¯re going to tell me everything," he said, voice calm, even. The gang boss spat blood onto the wet wood, laughing hoarsely. "You think I¡¯m scared of you? You¡¯re a couple of dogs sniffing around shit." Alistair didn¡¯t move, but the click of his revolver¡¯s hammer echoed between the shipping containers. The boss stiffened. "Start talking," Alistair said, voice lazy, almost bored. The man swallowed hard. "Fine. Do you want to know about the girl? Rofford¡¯s little princess? You¡¯re already too late. She¡¯s been passed around like a damn prize. First, the Black Knives took her. Then the Orpheus Circle got involved. And now?" He shook his head, a dark chuckle rasping from his throat. "Now she belongs to something worse." Clavius¡¯s grip tightened on the knife. "Who?" The gang boss licked his broken lip, his face slick with rain and sweat. "There¡¯s a buyer. Something old. Something that doesn¡¯t deal in money." Alistair exhaled sharply. "What the hell does that mean?" The man flinched. "I don¡¯t know! I just know that the Circle stopped bidding the moment they heard its name. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve got, I swear." Clavius studied him for a long moment, then stood. The gang boss sagged in relief¡ªuntil Alistair swung the revolver. The butt cracked against the man¡¯s temple, sending him sprawling into the puddles. Clavius stepped over him and glanced at Alistair. "The Orpheus Circle," he murmured. "That means we¡¯re dealing with the occult." The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Alistair holstered his gun and sighed. "You ever get tired of chasing ghosts?" Clavius pulled his coat tighter around him as the rain thickened. "No." The two men turned, disappearing into the shadows of the docks, leaving the gang boss slumped in the rain, muttering prayers to gods that never listened. The alleyway lay in damp shadows. Brick walls glistened with the sheen of recent drizzle. A neon sign flickered above. Its dying light cast sporadic flashes of crimson onto the cracked pavement. Christina stood beneath it. One gloved hand rested in the pocket of her fitted trench coat. The other gripped a small leather folder. She radiated effortless beauty. She turned heads in boardrooms and back alleys alike. Her long golden hair flowed down her back in loose waves. Silky strands caught the occasional glint of neon. High cheekbones framed her face. A sharp jawline softened by full lips painted deep carmine stood out against the cool night air. Her emerald eyes shimmered beneath dark lashes. Her gaze stayed sharp and unwavering. Her body held curves and poise. Long legs rested in dark stockings. The slit in her coat revealed glimpses of a toned thigh as she shifted. Beneath the coat, a fitted dress hugged her form. It shaped her slender waist. Her chest rose and fell in steady breaths as she waited. The shadows rustled. A figure stepped forward. A heavy coat draped over him. A low hood hid his features. His voice came rough and low. It rolled through the night like gravel over steel. "You have it?" Christina exhaled slowly, extending the leather folder. "That''s all I could find for now." A moment of silence passed as the man took the files, his fingers flicking through the pages with quick efficiency. The air around them felt still, heavy with unspoken tension. Something brushed against her ankle. Soft, small. A whisper of warmth in the cold night. Christina glanced down to see a kitten, no bigger than her palm, its fur a pale silver, almost luminescent under the alley¡¯s dim glow. It stretched, its tiny claws kneading the fabric of her stockings before curling around her leg with a delicate purr. Her lips parted slightly. Without thinking, she bent down, scooping the kitten into her hands. Its body was warm, impossibly light, its big, golden eyes blinking up at her with a quiet trust. She ran her fingers along its tiny head, feeling the softness of its fur against her skin. A faint smile ghosted across her lips. The informant shifted impatiently. "Focus. We¡¯re not here to play with strays." Christina didn¡¯t look up. "Neither are they." The man hesitated, as if about to say something else, but instead tucked the folder beneath his coat and stepped back. "I¡¯ll be in touch." Then, he melted into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the hum of the city beyond the alley¡¯s mouth. Christina let out a breath she hadn¡¯t realized she was holding. When she looked down, the kitten was gone. Her arms, once cradling something small and warm, now held only the night air. The neon above flickered again, painting her in red and black as she stood alone, staring at the empty space where the kitten had been. A chill crept down her spine. Something about this exchange felt different. Something unseen had just passed through her hands, and she wasn¡¯t sure if it had ever been there at all. The kitten darted through the labyrinth of alleys, paws barely making a sound against the rain-slicked pavement. Its sleek body weaved through the legs of late-night wanderers, slipping past neon-lit storefronts and the scent of sizzling street food. A gust of wind carried it forward as it sprang onto a rusted fire escape, claws clicking against the metal. Above, an open window spilled warm golden light onto the night. With a final leap, the kitten landed effortlessly on the windowsill, its tiny frame silhouetted against the luxury within. Inside, Conan reclined on a chaise lounge, dressed in a silk robe, a glass of red wine swirling lazily in his hand. The kitten landed in his palm, soft and weightless, its fur still cool from the night air. It looked up at him with wide, knowing eyes and let out a small, urgent meow. Conan smiled, the corners of his lips curving like a man who already knew the answer to the question. He ran a single finger along the kitten¡¯s spine, feeling the tension in its tiny muscles. "Find her," he murmured. "Tell the others. Watch. Listen. And return." The kitten blinked, then leaped from his hand, vanishing into the night as swiftly as it had come. Chapter 9 The private lounge was dimly lit. Thick velvet curtains muffled the restaurant''s distant hum. A decanter of aged whiskey occupied the table''s center. Its amber hue shone in the chandelier''s light. The atmosphere was filled with the scent of leather, cigar smoke, and rain from the city outside. Dante leaned back in his chair, tossing a thick stack of papers onto the table. The pages fanned out, glossy prints of security footage showing a familiar figure in the grainy glow of streetlights. "She knows how to disappear," he said, his voice as steady as ever. "But she has an informant. Matt Olsen." He flipped one of the papers forward. A still frame showed Christina, her hood pulled low, pressing a folder into a man¡¯s hands. Another image caught his profile¡ªMatt Olsen, half-hidden in the alley¡¯s shadows. Conan exhaled through his nose, picking up a print and studying it with mild amusement. "My cats tracked her to the shipyard," he said. "She stowed away on a freighter. Owned by the Orpheus Circle." His eyes lifted from the photo, their usual detached amusement fading. "I don¡¯t know where it¡¯s heading." Clavius tapped a single finger against the table. "Then we find out," he said. "Dante. You need to get onto that ship and take whatever files they have. Manifest, logs, anything." Dante rolled his shoulders and exhaled. "That¡¯s not something I can do remotely. I need direct access to their system." Alistair, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. The dim light caught the edge of his black leather eyepatch. "Then I¡¯ll get you there," he said. "We¡¯ll hit the shipyard together, get you inside, and get it done." Clavius nodded once. "Conan and I will handle Matt Olsen. If she trusted him enough to hand over a file, he knows more than he¡¯s letting on." Dante smirked slightly, running a hand through his dark hair. "Fine," he said. "Let¡¯s get to work." Matt Olsen sprawled on his worn-out couch. One arm rested on the backrest, the other on his stomach. His lanky frame slouched with ease. His legs stretched out, ankles crossed. His loose cargo pants hung comfortably, oversized pockets weighed down with odds and ends. His sleeveless blue vest, worn over a faded gray long-sleeve shirt, showed years of wear, its edges frayed from casual neglect. His light brown hair fell in uneven strands over his forehead, brushing against the sharp angles of his face. A thin beard shadowed his jawline, giving him a scruffy look. His pale blue eyes, half-lidded with disinterest, flicked between the television and the battered guitar propped against the wall. The lamp threw long shadows across the messy apartment. The coffee table was littered with takeout containers and crumpled papers, signifying his lack of concern about cleanliness. The air was thick with the scent of old books and stale cigarettes, mixed with the distant hum of the city outside the window. Matt exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. Another long night, another job he wasn¡¯t sure he should¡¯ve taken. The door exploded inward with a thunderous crack, splinters flying as Clavius stepped through the ruined frame. "What the¡ª?!" Matt¡¯s voice shot up several octaves, a panicked, undignified shriek as his legs kicked wildly against the couch. Papers scattered. A half-eaten bag of chips tumbled to the floor. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Before he could scramble away, a massive shadow lunged. Alice, the lioness, slammed him back onto the cushions, her enormous paws pinning his chest. Her golden eyes burned into his, hot breath fanning against his face. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through her throat, vibrating straight into his ribs. "Oh god¡ªoh god, oh god¡ª" Matt¡¯s hands shot up in surrender. "I didn¡¯t do anything, I swear! I don¡¯t even know why you¡¯re here!" Clavius loomed over him, silent, unblinking. The weight of his gaze pressed harder than the lion did. Conan strolled in, hands in his pockets, surveying the mess of an apartment with a distasteful curl of his lip. He clicked his tongue and crouched beside the couch, resting his chin on one hand. "Alice," he murmured, voice smooth as silk, "don¡¯t eat him¡­ if he cooperates." Alice¡¯s growl didn¡¯t stop. Her jaws parted, teeth flashing inches from Matt¡¯s face. "I¡¯LL TALK, I¡¯LL TALK!" he squeaked, nodding frantically. "Just¡ªjust call off the murder cat!" Matt¡¯s breath came in short, ragged gasps as Alice¡¯s weight pressed him onto the couch. His fingers twitched, gripping at nothing, eyes darting between Clavius and Conan. "She was looking for something," he blurted, voice shaking. "Something big. I don¡¯t know what, I swear, but it had to do with her old man¡¯s empire." Clavius didn¡¯t react. His stare remained cold, patient, as if waiting for Matt to hang himself with his own words. "She came to me a few times," Matt continued, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow. "Asking about old connections, old deals¡ªstuff tied to Rofford¡¯s legacy. Shipping routes, shell companies, and people who used to be on the payroll. She said something wasn¡¯t adding up." Conan leaned in, resting his elbow on the armrest, fingers drumming against his cheek. Alice¡¯s growl rumbled lower, a vibrating threat that had Matt sweating through his shirt. "And?" Clavius finally spoke. Matt flinched at the weight of that single word. "And she was spooked," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "More than usual. She always knew how to cover her tracks, but this time? She was running. Fast. She stopped asking me for help a week ago. After that¡­ nothing." Clavius straightened. The air in the room shifted, heavy with unspoken understanding. Christina wasn¡¯t just looking into her father¡¯s empire. She had found something. And now, she was running for her life. Conan flipped open the file, his golden eyes scanning the pages with the slow, deliberate ease of a predator circling its prey. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the lingering growl of Alice, who hadn¡¯t moved from atop Matt¡¯s chest. The man beneath her trembled, his fingers twitching against the couch cushions, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "You¡¯re lying," Conan said, his voice smooth but absolute. Matt flinched. His lips parted in a desperate protest, but Conan didn¡¯t look at him¡ªhis attention stayed on the papers in his hands. The pages were marked with familiar insignias, coded invoices, and manifests that stretched across continents. The deeper he read, the more his brow furrowed. Something was wrong. He had seen smuggling reports before, the telltale language of underground trade. But this? The destinations didn¡¯t make sense. The shipments weren¡¯t listed as cargo but as subjects. No names, no specifics¡ªonly numbers. Cold, clinical. Too precise. His fingers tightened on the edge of the file. "You want to try again?" he asked, finally lifting his gaze to Matt. Matt licked his lips, his eyes darting between the lion and Conan. "Okay, okay!" he blurted. "She said something about the shipyard. That there was a route¡ªone her father used¡ªbut it wasn''t just moving weapons, or drugs, or people. It was worse." Conan leaned forward, the file tapping against his knee. "Define worse." Matt swallowed hard. "I don¡¯t know, man. She wouldn''t say. Just that if she was right, if this was what she thought it was... she¡¯d have a target on her back bigger than her old man ever did." Conan exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the cryptic numbers on the page. Not human trafficking. Something worse.