Meanwhile, back at the party hosted by the underground bosses.
The laughter had settled into low murmurs now, swirling between the clink of glasses and the hum of ice shifting in expensive whiskey.
But the conversation hadn't died.
If anything, it had only changed lanes.
"So…" the man in the white shirt leaned forward, his voice dropping a little, eyes gleaming. "If we were to hit her—really hit her—what's the angle?"
"Simple," said the bald man, swirling his drink. "We don't. Not directly. Not at first."
"Then?"
"We make her bleed slowly. Strip her from the outside in."
Across the table, the woman in red tilted her head slightly, curious.
"Start with what?" she asked.
"Distribution networks," said the cigar man. "She's built a clean system—no noise, no mess. But that's a weakness, too. She's clean because she keeps it tight. Which means if we jam one piece…"
