The underworld of Miami was ruled by names that the average person never heard, whispered like shadows in expensive cigar smoke and kept alive only in rumor. At the top of that hierarchy stood Eli Bray, a man who had graduated from a street-corner dealer in his teenage years to a full-blown drug lord with international connections by the time he was in his thirties. He wasn’t flashy about his wealth, but those who knew, knew: every brick of coke moved through South Florida had his fingerprints somewhere on it. The Bray Organization was feared not just for its reach, but for its precision—his crew ran like a military outfit, each man and woman loyal, each role carved in stone. People in his orbit lived fast and died faster, but Eli was different. Calculated. Patient. A storm contained inside a tailored suit.