At the FBI office, the tension was palpable as agents gathered for a critical briefing. The lights dimmed, and a grainy video played on the large screen in front of them. The footage captured a burning stash house, one of Ricco's six recently hit by a mysterious assailant. Flames engulfed the building, and, just like in the others, a shadowy figure could be seen entering and leaving the scene. His face was obscured, no clear features to identify him, but his actions were methodical, efficient. In the background, the structure crumbled into ashes.
The video paused, and the room was filled with anticipation.
"Ricco's stash house," the director began, standing at the head of the table. "One of six burned to the ground in the last month. This one? Same M.O. as the others. Someone's out there targeting his operation—whoever they are, they're trying to dismantle him piece by piece."
One of the senior agents leaned forward, arms crossed. "Ricco's been on our radar for years. A known felon, involved in trafficking, money laundering, the works. But this… this is new. We don't know who's behind these attacks on his stash houses, but we know one thing: they're hitting him hard, and it's not just random violence. Whoever this is knows what they're doing."
Another agent spoke up, flipping through a file. "Ricco's network is extensive. Could this be a rival gang trying to take over his territory?"
"That's what we're here to find out," the director replied, his voice steady. "Ricco's a big fish, but if there's a bigger predator out there, we need to identify them. This isn't just about taking down Ricco anymore. This is about finding out who's making these moves and using it to take down both sides. Two for the price of one."
He gestured towards the screen, where the shadowy figure in the video lingered, frozen mid-stride. "This is our key. Whoever is attacking Ricco is a player we haven't encountered yet. They're burning his operations and likely moving in on his turf. But as of right now, we have no name, no face, and no leads."
The room fell into a brief silence, the weight of the task ahead settling in.
"We need to step up surveillance on Ricco," the director continued. "Start shaking down his known associates, suppliers, even his enforcers. Someone has to know who's behind this, or at least have a clue. If we can catch the people attacking Ricco, we can flip them and use them to take down his entire operation."
The agents exchanged looks. This was an opportunity to dismantle not just Ricco, but the network of criminals circling around him.
An agent sitting at the far end of the table raised her hand. "Director, we have reports that Ricco's been scrambling to protect what's left of his assets. He's moved his product, his money—everything. But if these hits keep coming, it's only a matter of time before someone slips up. We can leverage that. Monitor his communications, his couriers. Someone's got to crack under the pressure."
The director nodded. "Agreed. And we need to find out more about these attackers. We have no idea who they are, but based on the precision of the attacks, they're no small-time operation. This could be a new player, or it could be one of the existing organizations making a power move. Either way, the faster we identify them, the faster we can use them to bury Ricco for good."
The agents jotted down notes, exchanging ideas for their next steps.
"Keep in mind," the director warned, "this isn't just about Ricco anymore. Whoever is behind these attacks is just as dangerous, if not more. If they're organized enough to take down Ricco's stash houses, they could be aiming for something much bigger."
The briefing ended, and the agents left the room with a renewed sense of purpose. They had a double target now—Ricco, the known felon whose empire was being dismantled, and the unknown figure behind the attacks. If they could identify this new player, it could be the key to not just stopping Ricco, but breaking open a whole new layer of the city's criminal underworld.
Although the supplier, Victor Sanchez, managed to calm Ricco down after the betrayal, the tension in the room remained thick. Victor explained his reasons—why he switched sides and chose to supply Jamal—but he knew Ricco wasn't the type to forgive easily. Ricco paced back and forth, his anger barely contained, smashing a glass on the table out of frustration.
"You're asking me to trust you again after everything?" Ricco spat, glaring at Victor. "You sold me out for that punk Jamal. And now you come here, telling me you want to help?"
Victor held his hands up, trying to deescalate the situation. "I get it, Ricco. I do. But I didn't have a choice back then. You were slippin', man. Your operation was getting sloppy. I made a call, and yeah, I betrayed you, but I'm here now, offering a way to make it right."
Ricco's eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing across his face. "Why would I believe anything you say now? You could be setting me up."
Victor leaned forward, his voice low and measured. "Because I know where Jamal's main warehouse is. They're keeping over $14.5 million in cash there, along with 290 kilos of coke. That's enough to hit them where it hurts."
Ricco stopped pacing, his interest piqued. "And how exactly do you know all this?"
Victor smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Because I've got a mole inside the warehouse. He's been working for me for months now. He knows their movements, their shipments, everything. He's already given me the layout, where the cash is stashed, and how they rotate the guards."
Ricco crossed his arms, still skeptical but intrigued. "So, what? You're offering this information out of the goodness of your heart?"
"I'm offering you a shot at payback," Victor said, his tone growing more serious. "Look, I know I screwed you over. But I'm giving you a chance to strike back at Jamal and Tyrone. You hit that warehouse, you cripple them. They lose their cash flow, their product, and maybe—just maybe—you get back on top."
Ricco stared at Victor for a long moment, weighing his options. He could feel his pulse racing at the thought of revenge, but he wasn't stupid. There was still a chance Victor was playing both sides.
"And what's in it for you, huh?" Ricco finally asked. "You want to see Jamal burn, too?"
Victor shrugged. "Let's just say I've got my reasons. Jamal's been getting a little too big for his boots. It's time someone brought him back down to earth. I'm giving you the opportunity to be that someone."
The room fell silent as Ricco considered the offer. His mind raced with possibilities—4.5 million in cash, 29 kilos of cocaine, and a direct hit to Jamal's empire. If Victor's information was legit, this could be the move that put Ricco back in the game.
"Fine," Ricco finally said, his voice cold and calculated. "I'll take your information. But if this turns out to be a trap, Victor, you're a dead man."
Victor smiled, knowing that Ricco was in. "Trust me, this isn't a trap. This is your shot at taking them down. And I'll be right there with you, every step of the way."
As Victor left, Ricco couldn't shake the feeling that the game had just changed. This was his chance to strike, but the risks were higher than ever. Now, it was just a matter of playing his cards right.
Tyrone leaned against his car, his eyes scanning the bustling scene outside the primary school. He straightened up as he saw his ten-year-old daughter, Mia, walk out of the school gates, her backpack bouncing on her small frame. The hard edges of his criminal life melted away as she ran up to him, a wide grin on her face.
"Dad!" Mia said excitedly, giving him a quick hug.
"Hey, princess," Tyrone smiled, ruffling her hair gently. "How was school today?"
Mia launched into an excited retelling of her day, talking about a new project and how she had aced her spelling test. Tyrone listened attentively, trying to focus on her words and push aside the weight of the world that came with his empire.
As they walked, Mia grabbed his hand, and Tyrone felt a rare sense of peace in these moments with her, moments where he could just be a father.
"Hotdogs?" Tyrone asked, pointing towards a food stand across the street.
"Yes, please!" Mia giggled, already dragging him towards the vendor.
Tyrone ordered two hotdogs, the vendor giving him a respectful nod, likely recognizing who he was. He handed Mia her hotdog, and they found a nearby bench to sit on.
"Do you have to work again tonight?" Mia asked between bites.
Tyrone took a deep breath, his daughter's innocent question cutting deeper than he expected. "Yeah, sweetheart. I've got a lot of work to take care of."
Mia frowned but nodded, understanding in the way only a child could. "You always work a lot. I wish you didn't have to."
Tyrone shifted, feeling the weight of her words. "I know, baby. I do it for us though. To make sure you have everything you need."
A few meters away, a black Range Rover rolled slowly down the street, its tinted windows barely giving a glimpse of the men inside. Armed and alert, the gangsters kept a close eye on Tyrone and Mia, ready to step in if anything looked suspicious. Tyrone had learned to always be prepared, even during these quiet moments.
As they ate their hotdogs, Mia pointed at a dog walking past, her innocent excitement making Tyrone chuckle softly.
"I'm going to get a dog when I'm older," Mia said confidently.
Tyrone raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? And who's gonna take care of it?"
"I will!" she giggled. "I'll teach it to listen better than you do!"
Tyrone laughed, the sound rare for him these days. He looked at Mia, wishing for a second that he could just freeze this moment, that he could keep her away from the darker parts of his life. But reality was always close behind.
He glanced at the Range Rover, knowing that while he was enjoying this moment with his daughter, his world was never far from violence. Tyrone didn't flinch at the thought, but Mia's presence made him all too aware of how easily it could all come crashing down.
Still, he pushed the thoughts aside for now, focusing on Mia, on the simplicity of the moment. "Alright, princess," he said. "How about we get you a dog one of these days?"
Her eyes lit up with excitement, and she jumped up from the bench. "Really?!"
Tyrone smiled. "Yeah. Really."
But even as he made the promise, he couldn't ignore the shadows looming, both in his world and in his thoughts.
In the heart of Paris, inside an upscale restaurant with dim lighting and soft music, a young woman with striking features—half Mexican, half American—sat alone at a table. Her sleek, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her eyes focused intently on the perfectly cooked steak in front of her. The air around her radiated with quiet confidence, a subtle strength that didn't match her youthful appearance.
A man in a tailored suit approached from a nearby table. He was her guard, always keeping a careful distance, but never far. He placed a phone gently on the table beside her without a word.
She paused, fork mid-air, as she looked at the phone, her brow furrowing slightly in confusion. Picking it up, she answered in her calm, collected voice, "Sí, quién habla?"
The voice on the other end was familiar but carried an unusual weight. It was a close associate of her father, his tone solemn, as if delivering a final judgment. "Señorita... your father passed away last night. It was natural causes... I'm sorry. You need to return immediately. Tonight."
Her heart sank, a wave of disbelief washing over her. She clenched the phone tightly as the words echoed in her mind. Her father—one of the most powerful men in the world of organized crime, the infamous boss of Los Blanca—was gone. And with him, everything she had known about her life was about to change.
The once delightful taste of her meal turned to ash in her mouth. She stood up abruptly, not caring about the unfinished plate. Her mind raced as the cold reality of what she had just heard began to sink in. Her life, her position, her future—everything was about to shift in ways she could barely comprehend.
The guard followed close behind as she left the restaurant, walking with purpose to her awaiting car. Within an hour, she was back at her luxurious hotel suite, her bags already packed for her.
As she boarded the private jet that was waiting to take her back to Tijuana, Mexico, she stared out the window, the lights of Paris fading beneath her as the plane ascended into the night sky. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back, her father had always taught her to be strong, to never let emotions cloud her judgment.
She wasn't just his daughter; she was his legacy, and now, the weight of Los Blanca would inevitably fall on her shoulders. Even though she had always been prepared for this day, she never thought it would come so soon.
By the time the jet soared over the ocean, she had already steeled herself for what awaited her back home. She was no longer just the daughter of the cartel boss—she was about to become much more.