The SUV glided forward as if it could follow roads not yet drawn.
Outside, the Sonoran heat blurred the landscape into mirage — mountains liquefying on the horizon, power lines melting into waves. Time felt suspended, as if the world itself was listening.
Inside, the silence deepened.
Romero hadn't spoken in minutes. Neither had El Fantasma.
The air inside the vehicle was colder now, not from the A/C but from the weight that had settled between them: the face of a man neither of them trusted — and neither of them could yet kill.
The tablet still glowed softly, casting a pale reflection across El's gloved fingers. The image on-screen was deceptively simple:
Valentino Moretti.
Three-piece charcoal suit. Crisp. Understated. Expensive.
He stood beside the ramp of his private jet, one polished shoe resting on the edge like a man posing for a photograph he didn't want to seem posed for. His sunglasses dangled in one hand. The other hand was open, palm half-turned toward the camera. Unthreatening. Inviting.
His smile?
Subtle.
One side of his mouth tugged higher than the other — a smile not born from joy, but from control.
A smile that said, I already know what you think.
A red rose sat neatly in his lapel.
Too red.
The kind of red that photographs just a little too brightly, even in natural light. The kind of red that meant don't mistake this for romance.
El Fantasma leaned slightly forward, studying not the man's face but the details.
The cufflinks — Sicilian silver, engraved with the symbol of the wolf.
The watch — custom, military grade, unbranded. Not worn to impress.
The shoes — slightly dusty. Not vanity. Practicality. He'd walked somewhere before this photo.
But it was the reflection in Valentino's sunglasses that pulled El's focus.
There — barely visible — a shape behind the photographer. Another man? A guard? A priest?
No. Too blurred.
Maybe Valentino wanted it that way. Maybe it was part of the message.
"He's baiting you," Romero said finally, voice low.
El said nothing.
"It's a photograph disguised as an invitation."
Still, the Ghost didn't move.
"He's telling you he's already here. That he's already watching."
El tapped the screen once. Zoomed in.
Not on Valentino.
On his left hand.
There — a tattoo beneath the watchband. A line of letters.
Q.S.F.
Latin.
Romero noticed it at the same time.
"Quis Sunt Faciendi," he muttered. "Those who do, decide."
"Old Roman military code," El said quietly.
A code for executioners.
Valentino wasn't hiding what he was.
He was announcing it — with a smile, a flower, and a vintage motto for state-sanctioned killers.
Romero sat back, his expression unreadable.
"He's not afraid of you."
El didn't respond.
Instead, they closed the dossier.
The screen went black.
The interior of the SUV dimmed slightly, the tablet's glow fading away like a dying breath.
Outside, a hawk screamed.
The road narrowed. The world tightened.
Inside, El Fantasma leaned back in the seat. Slowly. Calmly.
Then they closed their eyes.
Not in sleep.
In calculation.
There was no need to look at Moretti's face anymore.
Because the face wasn't the message.
The message was that he believed he could see behind the mask.
He believed he could get close.
That was his mistake.
Because this wasn't business anymore.
This was something else.
Not war. Not even rivalry.
It was the beginning of a game — the kind where one player doesn't even know the rules...
...and the other one wrote them in blood.