CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER 29

Victor Ramos didn’t rule his empire from some grand throne or a lavish office bathed in light. No, his power was wielded from a far less noticeable place, the back room of La Fortuna, a poker den that seemed ordinary at first glance. It was hidden behind a plain door in the heart of the garment district, it was a world apart from the city’s flashy glamorous image.

Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of burning cigars, expensive whiskey and the quiet buzz of secret conversations. The sound of poker chips clinking was sharp like gunshots and the shuffle of cards added to the tension. This was where fortunes were won or lost in an instant, and where debts were far more dangerous than any written contract.

Ramos sat at his polished mahogany desk. Tonight, he wasn’t playing cards. Instead, he was playing a much more dangerous game, the game of power and control. His fingers hovered over a sleek, secure laptop before settling into a slow, deliberate rhythm of scrolling and clicking. The screen was filled with digital ledgers that tracked profits, losses and debts, a silent record of his empire’s influence.

The soft light from a brass desk lamp illuminated his face, which showed no emotion. In his late fifties, his dark hair was starting to turn silver at the sides but his strong build still filled a well fitted charcoal suit. His eyes, sharp and calculating scanned numbers with cold precision. In his world paranoia was necessary for survival, so he surrounded himself with layers of security—both digital and physical. All his communications went through trusted, tech-savvy colleagues.

Suddenly, a discreet chime rang from the laptop. It wasn’t a regular system alert but a special, quiet sound meant for the most secure messages. These came through secret channels that only a select few knew how to access, and even fewer dared to use.

Ramos paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he shifted his attention from the usual work of reviewing profit margins to something more urgent. Slowly, he minimized the financial records on his screen. The soft light from his brass desk lamp cast long shadows on his face as he focused on the new task at hand.

He opened a secure encrypted messaging portal, reserved for the most confidential business. Inside, a single new message appeared, glowing softly in an otherwise dark inbox. It was marked with the highest priority, meaning it came from an untraceable source. The sender was listed as blank—no clue who had sent it or how they managed to break through his defenses. The subject line was short and direct:

Deke Vance. Your Money.

Ramos remained calm, his face an unreadable mask. He didn’t show any surprise or anger—feelings that were often dangerous in his world, especially when dealing with people like Deke Vance. Vance was a small-time operator who owed him money, and it seemed he thought he could play both sides.

With careful movements, Ramos highlighted the attached audio file. Before pressing play, though, he executed a series of quick commands—habits he’d perfected over time. The file was isolated in a secure digital sandbox to catch any hidden malware. At the same time, his system which was monitored by his trusted tech expert Silas began scanning for any signs of trackers or malicious code.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Ramos’s sharp eyes scanned the results as lines of code and security logs flashed on his screen. The verdict came back quickly: the file was clean.

No metadata. No sign of where it came from. It had been professionally scrubbed.

That was the moment Ramos’s focus sharpened. This wasn’t an amateur hacker or a careless leak—whoever had sent this knew exactly how to get past his defenses and erase every trace of their identity.

He carefully plugged in his noise canceling earbuds, his fingers steady despite the swirl of thoughts racing through his mind. With a soft click, he pressed play.

The audio was grainy and distorted but the voices were clear enough. A faint, constant hum from a cheap jukebox filled the background, mixed with the occasional clink of glassware. It was unmistakably the sound of a low-end bar which was crowded, noisy and tense.

Then came the harsh, grating voice of Darius ’Deke’ Vance.

"Well? Quit starin’ like a landed fish, Silva" Deke’s voice sneered, full of impatience. "Where’s my three hundred? Ramos ain’t got time to wait and neither do I."

Ramos stayed still, his expression unreadable as he listened with cold detachment. Silva’s voice trembled with fear, trying to explain the impossible situation he was in—the growing demands and pressure.

But Deke wasn’t interested in excuses. His threat was clear, if Silva didn’t pay up, he would smash the man’s bottles. His words hinted at violence and the fear in Silva’s voice made it obvious that the threat was real.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly when Deke explicitly used his name as the reason for the extortion.

"...Ramos ain’t got all day" Deke growled.

"...and it needs to be for Ramos," he added, each word like a reminder.

"...Ramos patience is thinner than cheap paint these days..."

"...He will send guys who make my crew look like a Sunday school choir, Silva. You don’t want to test that."

The recording continued, ending with the unmistakable sound of a cash register opening, the hurried exchange of coins and bills—an insufficient payment for what Deke had demanded.

Then, Deke’s voice again, cold and commanding "Next week, it’s gonna be three twenty five. That’s three hundred, plus what you owe from tonight."

Three hundred and twenty five dollars. A small amount to most, but to Ramos, it wasn’t about the money. It was about respect. The audacity of Deke running a small time racket using Ramos name and still paying far less than he owed.

Ramos leaned back in his chair, the room was silent except for the soft noise from the poker den outside. The recording played over and over in his mind—each word confirming the betrayal and the challenge that demanded a response.

Ramos paused the playback and carefully took out the earbuds, setting them down on the polished desk with deliberate care. The sounds from the poker room outside—the shuffle of cards, the faint laughter, the clinking of chips—seemed to fade into nothing, drowned out by the cold, silent fury now radiating from him like the chill of winter.

He leaned forward, his fingers briefly steepling as he processed everything. His eyes grew darker and harder as the weight of the situation sank in.

"Deke Vance..." Ramos muttered, the name leaving his mouth like poison. "A low-level hustler... a guy I fronted fifteen grand to. Fifteen thousand..." His voice trailed off, thick with disbelief and disappointment.

"He was supposed to pay back every penny, plus the interest—like a contract written in blood." Ramos’s eyes narrowed, cutting through the darkness. "But what’s he really doing? Starting his own extortion racket, using my name and reputation to threaten bar owners who are barely getting by.

He paused, his jaw tightening until the muscles clenched like steel. "And still... the idiot can’t even make his payments. Over and over." His voice dropped to a low growl, laced with disgust. "Still skimming from the very fear that should be keeping him safe. And worse..." Ramos’s eyes narrowed, the danger in them unmistakable. "He was dumb enough to get recorded doing it."

This wasn’t just a mistake. This was stealing. This was disrespect. Deke Vance thought he could hide under my shadow while taking advantage of the fear my name caused. It was a problem that needed to be dealt with—quickly and harshly. Ramos didn’t shout or pound his fist. Instead, he pressed a button on his desk intercom. Moments later, the door opened quietly. Silas, his tech expert who was young, sharp, and dressed simply stood there, waiting for instructions. Behind him, filling the doorway with his intimidating presence was Marcus. Marcus didn’t need a job title. His size, his scarred hands, and his cold stare told you everything you needed to know.

"Silas" Ramos voice was low, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. Every word carried the kind of authority that didn’t leave room for disagreement. "The anonymous message. Trace it again. Every hop. I want to know who sent it. Not the path, the sender. Use every resource. Off-book if necessary."

Silas nodded "Understood, Mr. Ramos" Without saying another word he turned and left the room without a sound, his footsteps barely echoing.

Ramos didn’t relax. Instead, he turned his gaze to the other figure in the doorway which was Marcus. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Ramos cold stare met Marcus’s heavy, intimidating presence.

"Deke Vance" The name was spat out with pure contempt. "That small-time hustler I lent fifteen grand to." Ramos’s voice grew gravelly, thick with disgust. "He’s been collecting money using my name for protection. And what’s he done? Not paid a cent back."

He pointed at the laptop where the evidence still showed on the screen. "This recording proves it. That bastard thinks he’s smart, thinks he’s hidden. But there’s no place to hide from me."

Marcus didn’t say a word. He stood in the doorway, his facial expression was unreadable and unyielding. His presence was enough to send a message; no words needed. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to act at any moment.

Ramos’s voice dropped to a quiet, menacing whisper—so soft it almost seemed to absorb the smoke in the room. But it carried more threat than any loud command.

"Find him," Ramos said, each word slow and heavy with cold intent. "Don’t touch him yet. Not until I say so."

He moved closer, his eyes locking onto Marcus with a sharp focus. "I want to know everything—where Vance is hiding, who he’s talking to, where he’s hiding the money he’s stolen."

Ramos’s tone sharpened. "Watch him. Isolate him. Make him feel the pressure. Let him wonder if we’re watching every move he makes, if we know every secret he’s hiding."

A cold, calculating look flashed in Ramos’s eyes—one born of years of hunting and dealing with traitors. "When he’s broken, scared and desperate—then you bring him to me."

He stepped back, a cruel smile curling on his lips, though his eyes remained cold.

"I have questions for him," Ramos said, his voice firm. "Questions about his operation, his loyalties, and this recording. I want to hear his answers in person" Ramos finished, his tone making it clear that failure or defiance was not an option.

Marcus gave a single, slow nod. His voice came out low and rough, like gravel being crushed underfoot. "Understood" Without another word, Marcus turned and disappeared into the poker den hallway, his heavy footsteps fading into the quiet.

Victor Ramos leaned back in his leather chair, the soft creak barely heard. He steepled his fingers, eyes staring off into space, but his mind was sharp and focused. The numbers on the laptop screen no longer mattered. The poker game outside his door, where desperate players tried their luck and lost, seemed far away. It was all background noise to the cold calculations running through his head.

A dangerous smile spread across Ramos’s face—a smile without warmth, like that of a predator who knows the trap is set. The anonymous message had done him a favor. It had revealed a rat in his operation—a weakness he couldn’t ignore.

Now it was time.

Time to catch Deke Vance, the rat.

And time to see what other dangers might be hiding in the shadows.