Morty’s voice hung in the air, heavy with accusation. “We were betrayed.”Jacob stared at him, processing the weight of the statement. The dim office seemed even darker as Morty’s words echoed in his mind.“What do you mean betrayed?” Jacob asked, his tone sharp.“I mean someone tipped off those attackers” Morty replied, crossing his arms. “The Bullhorn gang knew exactly when and where to strike, that wasn’t a coincidence... it was planned”Jacob frowned “That doesn’t make sense, you think someone on your side did this?”“Maybe” Morty said, his voice tight. “Or maybe someone on yours”The accusation hit Jacob like a punch to the gut. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Watch what you’re saying, Morty... I don’t take kindly to being accused of stabbing anyone in the back”By the look of pure rage I'm Jacob's eyes , Morty could see that he struck an unexpected nerve in Jacob.“I didn’t say it was you” Morty responded “But let’s not pretend the Draguns are saints, for all I know, so

Lloyd’s eyes remained glued to the name on the redacted document... Annabelle Bishop. His mother’s name stood out like a beacon amidst the sea of blacked-out text, taunting him with its presence yet offering no clarity. His mind was electrocuted.First his father had appeared in the Lancaster report from the police station break-in, and now his mother. The pieces of his past were aligning in the most unsettling ways, but the picture was still incomplete.He slammed the folder shut, his jaw tightening with frustration.“I need the full version of this report” Lloyd said, his voice sharp and commanding.Jacob flinched at the intensity in Lloyd’s tone.“Lloyd, I already told you... that’s everything Morty gave me”“Then get more!” Lloyd snapped, his frustrations mountingJacob straightened, trying to maintain his composure despite the growing tension in the room. “I can’t, Lloyd. The non-redacted version is under lock and key, and only Morty’s father, Larry flanagan, can authorize it

The black sedan came to a stop in front of the Museo della Pizzaro, the grand Italian-styled museum housing some of the most prized possessions of the Pizzaro crime family.The marble exterior gleamed under the moonlight, and the air was thick with the weight of unspoken danger.Lloyd Bishop stepped out of the car, his black coat trailing behind him as he surveyed the area. Ivan followed, his eyes scanning every corner, his hand tucked into his jacket where a concealed weapon rested.The two men stood silently, watching the building they had been scouting for days. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their routes precise and calculated, as though every move had been rehearsed.Ivan broke the silence, his voice low but edged with doubt. “Boss, you sure about this? The place is locked down tighter than a vault”Lloyd didn’t take his eyes off the building. “We’ve done harder jobs before”Ivan let out a small huff. “You say that like we’re not two men about to walk into one of the most dang

The Francis compound loomed large and quiet in the dim light of early morning. Lloyd parked his car at the front gate, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.Blood seeped from the gunshot wound on his face, coating his hair and staining his shirt.Breathing deeply, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a sleek black vial...his regenerative solution. Unscrewing the cap, he downed the bitter liquid in one gulp.Warmth spread through his body as the solution went to work, knitting torn flesh and tissue together with an almost supernatural efficiency.He wiped his face with a cloth, watching in the rearview mirror as the wound sealed itself, leaving only faint redness where the bullet had entered.Reaching over to the passenger seat, he grabbed the Francis family crest, its golden surface gleaming faintly under the streetlights. He tucked it securely under his arm, straightened his jacket, and stepped out of the car.As Lloyd entered the compound, he was immediate

Steam curled around Morty as the hot water pounded against his tense shoulders. His hands braced against the shower wall, head bowed, frustration tightening his jaw.It had been weeks since he’d vowed to escalate his investigation into Camren’s death, but he wasn’t any closer to solving it. The evidence was scarce, leads were drying up, and the deeper he dug, the more dead ends he found.Worst of all, his father was growing impatient.Morty knew what that meant... if he didn’t produce results soon, Larry Flanagan would make him pay.He was genuinely afraid of this, Larry Flanagan might be his father, but he was still a ruthless man, who had no tolerance for who he considered dead weight.Sighing, he turned the water off and stepped out, grabbing a towel and wiping the steam off the mirror.His reflection stared back at him, tired and filled with self-loathing. He ran a hand through his wet hair before glancing at the large corkboard across the room, filled with photos, notes, and