By the end of the first month, Darius had a business.
Not a cartel. Not yet. A business. Ten kilos a week moving through the body shop on 68th Street, out to twelve street-level dealers across Hialeah Gardens, Miami Lakes, and the western edges of Doral. Nina ran the numbers with the precision of a woman who'd done three years for being sloppy once and had vowed never to be sloppy again. Every dollar tracked. Every dollar cleaned. The money moved through the body shop's books as auto repair revenue, the numbers plausible because Marcus kept two cars in the bays at all times, actually working on them, actually fixing them, so that anyone who walked in saw a functioning business.
