Chapter 19
War, Disguised as Excess
Asher
The reports pile up on my desk, neat and precise, with every number exactly where it should be. Crimson Inc. is expanding—quiet acquisitions, hostile takeovers dressed up as mergers, and growth that looks clean on paper and ruthless beneath it. Normally, this is where my focus lives.
Today, I can’t see past the screen mounted on the wall.
The surveillance footage loops again, muted but unmistakable. A penthouse soaked in excess. Bodies pressed too close. Faces glassy, unfocused, unraveling under the influence of Zephyra. My territory. My city. My rules—ignored.
This wasn’t a random party. It was hosted by people who knew exactly where they were standing, and exactly whose ground they were on. Rinaldi doesn’t make mistakes like this. He makes statements.
And this one ended with a girl dead.
Alessandra Moore. Twenty-three. A socialite, photogenic enough to make headlines unavoidable.
Disposable in our world—except for the fact that her death detonated exactly where Rinaldi wanted it to.
Loud. Public. Impossible to ignore. An overdose headline tied to a designer drug everyone already associates with my territory.
War, dressed up in champagne and music.
Maverick stands beside the desk, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen as the footage resets. “It wasn’t hers,” he says finally.
I don’t look at him. “I know.”
If it had been Violet’s Zephyra, we would’ve seen it immediately. Her signature is unmistakable—clean synthesis, consistent dosing, and none of the sloppy edges that get people killed. What’s playing out on that screen tells a different story. Panic. Collapse. Chaos.
Mav slides a thin file across the desk. “Our guys recovered multiple tabs from the scene. Some were pure counterfeit. Others were real Z—cut and laced after the fact. Fentanyl in enough of them to guarantee a body count.”
My jaw tightens.
“So Rinaldi steals the product, poisons it, then lets his people distribute it at a party on my turf,” I say, my voice level. Too level. “And he thinks I won’t understand what that means.”
“He wants you blamed,” Mav says. “Or dragged into it.”
“He wants to see if I’ll hesitate,” I correct. “If I’ll play clean when he bleeds dirty.”
Mav exhales, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “There’s another problem. The lab still can’t duplicate Z. We’ve broken it down to base components, mapped the molecular structure, and isolated the binders—and every trial batch fails.”
I close the folder carefully. “You’re telling me a full team of chemists can’t recreate a drug one woman made alone.”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” His mouth tightens. “Whatever she’s doing—it’s subtle. Something in the synthesis process we’re missing. Without knowing every step, we’re guessing.”
Anger coils low and vicious in my chest. “Unacceptable.”
Violet didn’t just create a drug. She created something no one else can replicate without her. And Rinaldi knows it now, too.
“That means he needs her,” I say. “Or he needs her silenced.”
Mav doesn’t argue.
“And it gets worse,” he adds. “This wasn’t just counterfeit. Someone had to get the real Z first. They took it from one of our parties and handed it off to Rinaldi’s crew.”
That lands slow. Heavy.
If Rinaldi’s people touched Zephyra, someone inside my operation made it possible. Someone who thought they could move product through my world without consequence.
“Find them,” I say quietly.
“Already working on it.”
“No loose ends,” I warn, my voice turning to ice. “Whoever did this doesn’t walk away.”
Mav nods once and pulls out his phone, already issuing orders. I barely register it. My attention has shifted back to the monitor—to the still frame frozen on the screen.
Violet.
The warehouse smells like oil and damp concrete, the air thick with cold and tension. A single bulb swings overhead, casting uneven shadows across rusted containers, and stained floors.
Four lieutenants sit in silence as Daniel Vasquez kneels in the center of the room, blood darkening the cement beneath him. He’d sat at my table not a month ago. Now his face is swollen, one eye nearly shut, and fear pours off him in waves.
I cross my arms. “You know why you’re here.”
“Boss—please—” Vasquez chokes out.
Maverick moves before I say another word, driving a brutal kick into his ribs. Vasquez collapses with a wet cough, blood splattering the floor.
“I don’t repeat myself,” I say calmly, watching my men tense.
“You stole Z from Cami’s last party. You handed it to Rinaldi’s crew.
And you thought I wouldn’t notice.” I crouch in front of him, the swinging bulb throwing half my face into shadow.
“I can tolerate mistakes. Betrayal is something else entirely.”
“It wasn’t me,” he gasps. “I didn’t know they were going to—”
A silenced gun presses to his temple. Maverick’s. Not mine. I haven’t lifted a weapon. I don’t need to.
I roll my sleeves up slowly. “I have the footage, Vasquez. I watched you lift the bag from the bar. I watched you make the trade. And when they laced it with fentanyl and used it to kill people—including Alessandra Moore—you sat back and played shocked.”
His shoulders slump. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem,” I say softly. “You should have.” I straighten and nod once.
The shot is muffled. Final.
Silence follows as Vasquez collapses, lifeless at my feet. No one moves. No one speaks.
“This,” I say evenly, stepping over the body, “is what happens to traitors.”
The room absorbs the message.
Maverick meets my gaze. “Rinaldi’s crew?”
“I want every location,” I reply. “Safehouses. Supply lines. Anyone connected.”
“And the girl?”
I pause, Violet’s face flashing through my mind again—frightened, defiant, and breaking.
“She stays alive,” I say. “She didn’t start this. But she’s going to help me finish it.”
I turn toward the exit, my boots echoing through the warehouse.
Someone tried to frame her. Someone tried to poison my world.
They’re about to learn exactly what that costs.