Cold Soup in the Bronx
The FBI hit Viola's club at three in the morning. Not a raid—a surgical extraction. Six agents in windbreakers, two search warrants, one guy with a tablet who started photographing everything before Viola could close the laptop that held the ledger. She watched from the stairwell, her back against the cold cinderblock, breathing through her mouth so she wouldn't cough and give away her...
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