In a dimly lit penthouse office in Midtown Manhattan, Vincent Moretti sat behind his desk. A crystal cup of whiskey rested in his hand, the ice cubes clinking softly as he listened to the voice barking on the other end of the desk phone on speaker.
"I don't give a fuck about your assurances, Moretti!" Milo Santoro's voice boomed through the speaker, filled with rage. "The stash house is riddled with bullet holes! My runners tell me Don Vito's Bronx muscle is standing on every corner in Queens pushing their own garbage! That kid Arslan hasn't moved a single bag in 48 hours!" Milo said as he was worried about his own money not arriving on time.
He was right in his fear, he knew if someone ain't selling shit, it means he won't get shit, so he was concerned that he won't get his money on time like he was promised.
Vincent took a slow sip of his drink, his expression entirely unbothered. "Calm down, Milo. You're an experienced supplier. You know turf shifts happen during a transition."
