FORTUNE

​The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing softly through the quiet house as Claire returned from seeing Jane out. She found Matt on the sofa, his frame hunched and his gaze fixed on nothingness. He looked smaller than usual, swallowed by the weight of his own thoughts.

​Claire crossed the room and sat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Babe, don't worry about what the doctor said," she whispered, her voice a fragile anchor. "We’ll be alright. My paycheck will be in before we know it."

​Matt turned his head slowly. His eyes were rimmed with red, brimming with a mixture of exhaustion and shame. "Claire, your dad was right about me," he said, his voice cracking. "He said I couldn't take care of you. And now..."

​The words died in his throat as the tears finally spilled over. Claire didn't let him finish; she pulled him into a tight embrace, her own tears soaking into his shirt. "We will be alright, honey," she sobbed into his neck. "I promise."

​Across town, the neon lights of Miami blurred into streaks of color as Bianca navigated her car through the evening traffic. She was almost home when a dark sedan swerved violently in front of her. She slammed on the brakes, her heart leaping into her throat.

​Before she could reach for her phone, the door was wrenched open. Jimmy, his face a mask of aggression, hauled her out into the humid air. Before she could scream, Henry stepped forward, his palm connecting with her cheek in a stinging, echoing slap.

​"You’ve got a lot of nerve, bitch," Henry spat, his eyes wild with a cold, frantic anger.

​Jimmy loomed over her, his shadow long against the asphalt. "You reported Henry? Are you really that naive?"

​Henry stared her down for a beat longer, the tension thick enough to suffocate. "Get out of here. Now," he growled. Without looking back, the three young men climbed into their car and tore away, leaving Bianca trembling on the pavement.

​Later that night, the air turned cool and stagnant. Matt’s friend Peter, a veteran FBI officer, had asked for a lift to a suburban residence that had been cordoned off with yellow tape. DEA officers were already swarming the property.

​As they stepped inside, the metallic scent of blood hit them. Four bodies lay scattered across the floor, their lives extinguished in a violent flash. Chad, Peter’s assistant, navigated through the forensics team to meet them.

​"El-Gando is among the deceased," Chad reported, checking his notes. "But the cocaine is missing."

​Peter’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. He looked around the room, his jaw tight. "There’s no point staying here," he muttered. "If we don’t have the evidence, we don't have a case." He signaled to Matt, who had been watching the grim scene in silence. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

​Back in the car, the silence of the night felt heavier.

​"You think someone stole the cocaine?" Matt asked, his voice low.

​Peter gave a grim nod and a mirthless smile. "Obviously, Matt. That shipment was worth about 150 million."

​Matt’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Wow. 150 million dollars?"

​"I know, right?" Peter sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. "Someone just hit the jackpot—or signed their death warrant."

​While the men were out, Claire found a brief sanctuary at RadioShark Miami, the workplace she shared with Peter’s wife, Toni. They sat in the breakroom, the hum of the electronics a constant backdrop to their hushed conversation.

​"Oh, Claire, this is bad," Toni said, shaking her head in sympathy. "What about the insurance?"

​"They aren't even attending to us," Claire replied, her voice flat with defeat.

​Toni bit her lip, a look of realization crossing her face. "Oh, right... I bet your dad had something to do with that."

​Claire nodded silently, the weight of her father's influence a shadow she couldn't escape. The heavy atmosphere broke only when Matt and Peter walked in, the two men sharing a hollow laugh over a private joke, trying to mask the tension of the night’s events.

​Deep in the industrial district, the "Crack Factory"—the insecticide plant where Matt worked—was a maze of shadows and chemical smells. Matt had returned to his office late, hoping to bury his stress in the rhythmic process of formulating new insect controls.

​He froze when he saw a figure standing by his desk. It was Henry, clutching a massive, overstuffed backpack.

​"Henry? What the hell are you doing here?" Matt demanded.

​"Matt, I need your help," Henry gasped. He looked like a man on the edge of a breakdown. He swung the bag onto the table and unzipped it, revealing brick after brick of white powder.

​Matt backed away, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Are you insane? You killed that Spanish guy and stole the cocaine?"

​Henry’s head shook violently, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. "No, Matt! We were business partners... then suddenly some Mexicans showed up. There was a shootout. He died, and I just... I took off with this."

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