The dimly lit warehouse buzzed with tension as Dominic “The Ghost” Varela stood at the head of the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled lazily around his face, the faint glow of an overhead bulb casting sharp shadows on his features. His gray eyes swept over the group of men seated around the long, battered table, each one waiting in uneasy silence.

On the table sat a blueprint of a high-security bank, scattered with red markers, scribbled notes, and a pair of black leather gloves. Dom placed a hand on the blueprint, his fingers tracing one of the marked entrances.

“This is the play,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, carrying enough weight to command the room without needing to shout. “In and out, ten minutes. No mistakes. You mess this up—” He paused, exhaling a plume of smoke before crushing the cigarette under his heel. “—and you’re not walking out of here. Clear?”

The gang nodded in near-unison, their faces a mix of determination and fear. Dom’s reputation wasn’t built on empty threats.

“Jax,” he said, pointing to a burly man in a leather jacket. “You’re on lookout. Keep the cops off our backs. I don’t care how you do it—distract them, delay them, hell, set a fire if you have to.”

He turned to a wiry guy leaning against the wall, flicking a switchblade open and shut. “Vito, you’re in the vault with me. You’ve got three minutes to crack it, or I’m kicking the door down myself.”

“And me, boss?” a younger man asked, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

Dom’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a knife. “You? You’re the driver. Keep the engine running and stay invisible. If I catch you messing around, you’ll wish the cops got to you first.”

“Remember,” he said, his tone calm yet menacing, “this isn’t just a score. This is a message. We don’t take scraps—we take everything. Now, let’s get to work.”

With a quiet breath, he adjusted his jacket and followed his crew into the night. The heist wasn’t just business—it was personal.