Giulano paused with the water bottle halfway to his lips. In his experience, jobs offered by teenagers in towns like West Antiok rarely involved filling out tax forms.
"Let's hear it. What kind of job?"
Danny's smile took on a sharp edge. "The kind that pays cash and asks no questions."
Here we go, Giulano thought. From emperor to street-level criminal in one cosmic joke. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and right now, Giulano González was the brokest beggar in West Antiok.
"I'm listening."
"There's this guy, Victor Restrepo. Runs numbers for some outfit out of the capital. Every Friday, he comes to Tony's Pizza to collect from the local bookies." Danny's voice dropped to conspiracy level. "Thing is, Victor's got a problem with basic math. Always skims a little extra for himself."
"And?"
"And his bosses are starting to notice. Word is, they're sending someone to have a conversation with Victor next Friday. The kind of conversation that ends with Victor taking an unscheduled swimming lesson in the Antiok River."
Giulano could see where this was heading. "You want to rob him before his bosses can kill him."
"Think of it as asset recovery," Danny said cheerfully. "Victor's gonna be dead anyway. We're just making sure his money goes to someone who'll appreciate it."
The logic was sound, if morally flexible. Victor was stealing from thieves who were planning to kill him for stealing. In the grand scheme of cosmic justice, intercepting that money was practically a public service.
"How much are we talking about?"
"Danny's grin widened. "Vic rolls with five K every Friday. Straight from the bookies. Easy pickings if you're not dead. Split two ways, that's twenty-five hundred each."
Twenty-five hundred dollars. In his old life, that wouldn't have covered a decent dinner. Now, it represented a fortune beyond imagination. "What's the catch?"
"Victor carries a piece. And he's got two guys with him—muscle from the capital. They're not exactly the type to hand over money because you ask nicely."
Of course there's violence involved, Giulano thought. There's always violence. But violence was a language he spoke fluently, even in Marcus's untrained body. And if Victor was already marked for death, they weren't really committing murder—they were just rescheduling it.
"When do we do this?"
"This Friday. Tony's Pizza, around six PM." Danny stood up, suddenly all business. "But first, we need to get you armed. And maybe some backup."
"Backup?" You don't know about anything kid.
"I know some people. Street kids, mostly. Hungry enough to take risks, smart enough not to get caught." Danny headed for the door, then paused. "One more thing, Marcus. After yesterday, word's gotten around about you. People are talking about the new kid who took down half the Red Serpents single-handed."
"Is that good or bad?"
Danny's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Depends on how you use it."
After the kid left, Giulano sat on his mattress and considered his options. Three days ago, he'd been running a criminal empire worth hundreds of billions. Now he was planning to rob a small-time numbers runner for grocery money.
The radio was still crackling with news about President Heshim's death, speculation about succession, and the kind of political theater that happened when nobody wanted to admit the real decisions were made in smoke-filled rooms by men like Theodore Bezio.
Theo's moving fast, Giulano realized. Which means I need to move faster.
But first, he needed to survive West Antiok. And surviving West Antiok meant embracing the local customs—which apparently involved armed robbery and teenage gang warfare.
From his window, he could see the town stretching out like a broken promise. Somewhere out there, Victor Restrepo was carrying around five thousand dollars and a death sentence. In two days, one way or another, both of those problems would be solved.
Giulano González was back in business. The business had just gotten a lot smaller and a lot more personal. But it was still business.
Danny's intelligence was impressive, but it also raised questions. In Giulano's experience, street kids didn't just stumble onto information about money runners and collection schedules. That kind of intel came from sources—sources that usually wanted something in return. Where'd you really hear this, Danny?
The kid was smart, maybe too smart. Information like Victor's Friday routine didn't spread randomly through West Antiok's grapevine. Someone had fed Danny this tip, which meant someone wanted Victor hit. The question was whether Danny knew he was being used, or if he was the one doing the using.
Probably heard it from the Red Serpents, Giulano realized. Makes sense. We embarrassed them yesterday, now they're offering us a suicide mission disguised as easy money.
But the beauty of the situation was that it didn't matter. Giulano needed startup capital, and twenty-five hundred dollars was exactly that—a start. Whether this was a setup, a test, or genuine opportunity, he'd make it work. He'd built an empire before; he could do it again, one carefully calculated risk at a time.
The first step was meeting this team Danny kept mentioning. If they were going to pull off an armed robbery, Giulano needed to know exactly who he was working with. In his old life, he'd never trusted anyone he hadn't personally vetted. That policy had kept him alive through three decades of criminal enterprise. He used to roll with men in bespoke suits and billion-dollar bank accounts. Now he was about to entrust his life to kids who still probably ate cereal for dinner.
He finished the water Danny had brought, savoring every lukewarm drop. By Friday, one way or another, his financial situation would be resolved. Either he'd have twenty-five hundred dollars and a new crew, or he'd be floating face-down in the Antiok River next to Victor Restrepo. Welcome to the minor leagues, Giulano. Time to remember how hungry feels.