El Diablo

[September 5, Wednesday, 11:47 P.M., Ramirez's Hideout, North Bay Village, Florida, U.S.]

In Ramirez's hideout, the air hung heavy with the scent of cigar smoke, swirling around the dimly lit room like tendrils of shadow. Behind his expansive desk, Carlos "El Diablo" Ramirez exuded an aura of power and authority, his sharp features contorted into a scowl of frustration and rage. Adorned in an impeccably tailored suit, decorated with expensive jewelry that glinted ominously in the subdued lighting, he radiated an air of menace and danger.

Ramirez had devilish handsomeness, with a sharply defined jawline complemented by a full, well-maintained beard. His slicked-back hair added an air of sophistication, perfectly matching his expensive, black-striped suit. His piercing eyes, a shade of deep, mesmerizing brown, held a hint of danger beneath their charismatic gaze. Many were usually surprised to find out that he was 41, for he looked to be in his late 20's.

As the tension in the room thickened, a hulking, tatted figure entered, his presence commanding attention even in the imposing presence of Ramirez. He was bald, and his eyes pierced through the soul like bullets.

"Dominic," Ramirez greeted, his voice tinged with a mixture of displeasure and anticipation.

"Señor," Dominic replied in a hushed tone, his expression grave and his movements deliberate. "It's the Miami Dogma. They hit one of our trucks—the one passing right through Miami. Killed our men and ran off with 1500 pounds."

Ramirez's scowl deepened, his lips curling into a snarl of fury. "QUE?" he spat, his voice reverberating with raw anger. "Who the fuck does Hehrbenstrautz think he is?"

With a calm demeanor that belied the gravity of the situation, Dominic placed his hands together and spoke softly. "I'm sure you're going to want to do something about this. Shall I round up some of the men?"

In the midst of turmoil and conflict, Ramirez's gaze hardened, his mind already formulating plans for vengeance. His scowl deepened, his anger simmering beneath the surface like molten lava. He took a long drag from his cigar, the ember glowing brightly in the dimly lit room, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

"Round up the men," Ramirez commanded, his voice dripping with venomous intent. "I want every last one of those Miami Dogma bastards hunted down and brought to me. No mercy."

Dominic nodded, his face a mask of determination as he turned to leave the room. Ramirez watched him go, his mind already spinning with plans for retribution. He wouldn't rest until he had exacted his revenge upon Hehrbenstrautz and his ruthless mercenaries. The Miami Dogma had just declared war on El Diablo by pulling their stunt, and Ramirez was more than ready to answer the call to battle.

Ramirez's phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through the thick haze of cigar smoke that enveloped his office. With a curt gesture, he silenced the device and answered the call from the unknown number, his voice dripping with a potent mixture of suspicion and authority.

"Hola? Who is this?"

"This is Viktor Kozlov that you're speaking with, Mr. Ramirez," came the voice on the other end.

Ramirez's expression softened slightly as he recognized the name. "Oh, it's you, Viktor," he acknowledged, taking a drag from his cigar. "The shipment?"

"On its way. Should be touching the coast within three days or so. Make sure you have some of your men ready to pick it up," Kozlov replied, his tone businesslike and efficient. "The guns can't be traced back to anyone and they're military-grade. Make sure your men handle it appropriately."

"Don't you worry about that, hermano," Ramirez assured him. "My men will do their job."

"Good. And the money?" Kozlov inquired, his voice tinged with a hint of impatience.

"Ah, yes, el dinero. It will be sent to your account," Ramirez confirmed.

"4, right? 4 M's? That's what we agreed on?" Kozlov pressed, his tone firm.

"Sí, señor. As always, a pleasure doing business," Ramirez replied, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. With a decisive click, Ramirez ended the call, his thoughts already turning to the impending conflict. He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and rose from his desk, his movements purposeful and deliberate. Crossing the room to the refrigerator, he retrieved a Modelo's beer and cracked it open with practiced ease, taking a long swig as he contemplated the brewing storm on the horizon. As he wiped his mouth, his scowl deepened, a silent promise of retaliation echoing in the depths of his gaze.

"He wants war… I'll give him war."