The dull chime of an old rotary phone echoed across the dimly lit room. Gallagher stood by the tall window of his study, a glass of red wine in one hand, the phone pressed against his ear with the other. Outside, Ashbridge's city lights flickered like distant stars—beautiful, distant, and utterly beneath him.
The line clicked.
"La Garra," Gallagher said smoothly.
A beat passed. Static. Then a cold, gravelly voice replied.
"What."
Gallagher's brow arched at the bluntness. His lips twitched, faintly amused. The cartel leader had always lacked patience, but lately, his tone had grown even more clipped.
"I have your answer," Gallagher said, casually swirling the wine in his glass.
Silence greeted him for another moment.
"Speak."
Gallagher took a slow sip of wine before continuing. "The man from the café shooting—the one in black. His name is Alex Grey."
