Winning the Champions League had bought Leo and Ben time, maybe even a shield, but they knew better. Somewhere under the glitter and champagne, a predator was still waiting, its teeth buried deep in the sport’s veins. The betting syndicate hadn’t gone away. It had just gone deeper underground, like a snake curling under the floorboards, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Leo sat in his apartment’s small living room, the blinds drawn, a mug of coffee cooling in his hands. The place ...