Renzo's place wasn't the kind of spot you stumbled onto. You had to know someone. It sat behind a boarded-up shoe repair shop on a side street in Montclair, the kind of neighborhood where nobody asked too many questions after dark. I knocked the code, two short, one long and he answered with his usual blank stare and a Glock tucked low.
"You're late," he muttered, stepping aside.
"Traffic."
He motioned toward the inner room, where monitors hummed like the inside of a server's dream. Concrete walls, no windows, and wires everywhere. A low-lit bunker where code came alive and secrets stayed buried.
I handed over the IBM drive.
"You weren't kidding," he said, turning it in his hand like an artifact. "Old-school. What am I looking for?"
"You'll see."
The boot-up took a minute. The machine croaked like a dying fan and then blinked to life. GhostLine's shell interface lit the screen cold, gray, precise. My system. My work. But something was off.
Renzo tapped away with his eyes narrowed.
"Somebody's been watching your trades," he muttered. "Not random. Structured. Following your patterns, mimicking your buys and sells with a delay."
"They copying me?"
"Worse. They're echoing you. Deliberate lag, like a mimic trying not to trip a sensor. And they're using serious cover, proxy layers, foreign IPs, maybe even gov-level reroutes."
"Someone good?"
"Someone close. They know what they're doing. Not quite me, but close."
That set off a dull throb in the back of my skull. Not fear. Strategy. I started working angles in my head.
"Can you bait them?"
"Already did. Left a honey pot trade in there looks like a hot tip, smells like money. If they bite, I'll track the backflow."
"How long?"
"Day or two. Maybe less. Depends how greedy they are."
I stood up, pacing between cables.
"You're not just paranoid," Renzo said without looking up. "You're hunted."
"Noted."
Back in Newark, things were shifting. Carlo Bianchi had been popping up more often—whispers in barbershops, calls from worried earners, new faces around jobs that used to be ours. His operation was subtle, but it was building fast. Sanitation. Site catering. Even a rumored construction permit tied to city kickbacks.
He was playing the long game. I didn't like it.
Ray Vento was the obvious middleman. I found him at a body shop near Belleville, standing beside a rusted-out Camry and nursing a Yoo-hoo like it was top-shelf bourbon.
"You're DeSantis?"
"Thought I'd stop by before your boss builds his empire on my street."
He laughed nervously.
"Nobody's looking to start shit, alright? Carlo just he's building."
"He's encroaching."
"There's room for both."
"Not in this borough."
I leaned against the hood.
"Tell him to tread lighter. We've seen bigger fish swallowed whole."
"You threatening me?"
"No. I'm making sure you don't get caught in the undertow."
His smirk faltered. It's always fun watching a guy realize he's not the one driving the car anymore.
Adriana dragged me back into the studio. Cassie was laying down vocals, trying to hit a note that didn't want to be caught.
"She's close," Adriana whispered.
"She'll get there."
Cassie finished the take and looked over, wide-eyed.
"Better," I said. "But control the end. Don't chase it. Let it come to you."
She nodded, biting her lip. She wasn't looking for praise. She wanted to get it right.
"You ever think about managing?" Adriana asked later.
"Every day. Right after I consider being a monk."
She laughed, flicking ash from her cigarette.
"You've got good instincts."
"That's why I stay behind the glass."
That night, outside The Boxcar, I spotted the Crown Vic again.
Same angle. Parked just far enough to pretend it wasn't watching. I crossed the street. Knocked on the window. Nothing. Engine off. I checked the plates, same numbers. Memorized them.
When I turned to walk away, it peeled off. No headlights. Just taillights fading.
Dino came out behind me.
"That the same car?"
"Yeah."
"You want it gone?"
"I want it followed. Quiet. I need to know where it sleeps."
He nodded, already pulling out his phone.
Three days later, Renzo called.
"Got 'em."
"Talk."
"They bit the bait. I bounced the trace. It came from Hackensack. Some old post office retrofitted into a private LLC. No taxes filed, water bills just restarted. Someone's living in the dead zone."
"Address?"
He sent it. I stared at it for a long time.
That building meant something. Not because I'd seen it before. Because it didn't want to be seen.
I made a late drive, circled the block twice, parked facing the wrong direction just to keep eyes on the front. The place had one camera and a locked door. No light. But something inside hummed.
Next time, I'd come with gear. Gloves. Maybe Renzo. Maybe not.
This wasn't about breaking in. It was about breaking silence.
Snapshot – Week Nine
Mob Etiquette: 17
Charisma: 18
Street Smarts: 13
Reputation: 23
Manipulation: 18
Combat Awareness: 10
Traits:
Quiet Credibility
Controlled Aggression
Precision Pressure
Foundation
Earner's Instinct
Early Investor
Community Cred
Soft Power
Ghost Mentor
Tactical Patience
Instinctive Threat Response
Digital Fingerprint Trap
Shadow Provoked
Ventures:
GhostLine (45%)
The Boxcar (28%)
Studio Project (Booking Phase)
Garbage Contract (Negotiation Start)
Carlo Bianchi Threat (Active)
Unknown Observer (Location Acquired)