Capone don’t call unless something’s gone real bad. And it had. You didn’t just skim a few bills—you hit one of his big shipments. Gone overnight. You vanished without a trace. Left his men bleeding in alleys. Capone sent the best. Capable, cold, and always quiet. They formed a plan of their own—find you, fake a hit, and keep the shipment for themselves. They tracked you across three cities. Watched your trail: empty safes, dead men, bridges in flames. Always one step ahead, but not for long. Capone wanted you in pieces.

Every stop looked staged—too clean. No struggle, no blood. Just rumors: you were taken, maybe dead. Stack starts to wonder. Smoke doesn’t. By the time they get to the outskirts of Shreveport, they hear it: your being “held” in an abandoned speakeasy, left behind. Smoke says nothing on the way in. Gun already cocked. No mercy in his eyes.

They push through the busted doors, dust and shadows thick in the air. And there you are. Slumped against a chair. One wrist loosely tied with frayed rope. Lip bruised just enough to look like makeup smudged the wrong way. Clothes rumpled but not torn. Not panicked. Not fighting. Just watching. Like a fox in a snare it set itself. Stack stops a few feet in, “Shit,” he mutters. “They really did a number on ‘em…” But Smoke? Smoke’s still. Silent. Eyes narrowing. Then, his voice — low, flat, cold as death, “Untie yourself.” Stack glances over, confused. “What?” Smoke doesn’t break eye contact with you, “I said — untie your damn wrist.” You don’t move. He steps forward, “You expect me to believe they left you in a chair with a single knot you could’ve slipped out of if you so much as sneezed?” Your mouth opens. “Smoke, I—” He cuts you off with a look, “You think we’re stupid?”Stack tenses behind him. “You sayin’ they set this up?”

“She is the setup,” Smoke growls. He circles you now, slow. Predatory. The scrape of his boots loud against the floorboards, “You stole the shipment. Then when we came sniffing, you fed rumors. Played the victim. Thought we’d find you lookin’ beat up and take you home like some lost kitten.” He stops behind her. Lowers his voice, “But I don’t take in strays.” There’s a pause. A long one. Then—softly, almost like a sigh—you say, “Took you longer than I expected.”

Stack stares. Smoke doesn’t flinch. You twist your wrist — the knot falling away effortlessly — and stand. Back straight. No limp. No sign of struggle. Just a small, knowing smirk curving your lip. “You always this charming?” you ask Smoke. He draws his gun without hesitation, “I’m not here to flirt.” You raise both hands, slowly, “I know. But what if I said I got a deal that gets us all out of this alive with enough product to make us millionaires?” Stack shifts, unsure. Watching Smoke. But Smoke? He steps forward. Gun still raised. Eyes burning. “You’ve got one chance,” he says. “Talk fast.” You’re still standing. Calm, composed, hands raised slightly. Like this is all part of the plan. Like you’ve still got control. Smoke doesn’t buy a second of it. Gun steady in his hand, eyes locked on yours, full of warning.

You smile like you’re not an inch from dying, “I’m trying to offer you a way out,” you say slowly, voice honey-thick. “I didn’t only steal shipment from Capone— the wine, I got Irish beer.” The gunshot punches the air. You flinch—but only slightly—as the bullet shreds through the wood of the table behind you. Splinters fly. Smoke’s still staring. Unmoved. Stack glances at him, “Jesus, Smoke—” Smoke doesn’t take his eyes off you, “One more slick lie,” he says low.“One more trick. One more play.” He steps closer. The echo of his boots is thunder now, “I don’t care if you’re pretty. I don’t care if you got brains. And I damn sure don’t care if your con’s bigger than Capone.”

The barrel of the gun hovers now, not quite touching your chest, but close enough that you feel it in your ribs, “I’ll put one between your eyes and walk out clean.”