Chapter 20
Victor
We drop Owen off at The High Card, then Matteo says he needs to go to Skylar’s penthouse on The Strip for some of her things.
I offer to take him and have him take one of Luke’s drivers back to the club because I need to go out to my house for some things for Lili and Grace.
Really though, I just need some time alone, and the hour-long drive out to my place is just the ticket.
Matteo offers to tell Grace where I went when he gets back to the club, and I thank him and head for the open road.
The roads are clear, traffic almost non-existent, and I’m free to let my mind wander as I make the familiar drive.
My mind drifts to Lili, to the bruises on her skin.
To Grace, still unaware of the full extent of the danger stalking her.
To Phineas, waiting in our warehouse, a loose end I’m not yet allowed to cut.
An hour later, I pull up to the gate at the edge of my property and punch in the code.
As I get closer to my house, my grip tightens on the steering wheel.
A black Escalade sits in my driveway, gleaming and immaculate. Two men stand beside it—thick necks, darker skin, impassive expressions. Not Phineas’s people. Not local muscle. I recognize that stance, those watchful eyes.
Cartel soldiers. My father’s men.
And there he is, sitting on my front porch as if he owns it. Like he belongs here.
Alejandro Serrano. Head of the Serrano Cartel. My father.
I park behind the Escalade, blocking it in. A petty move, but it makes me feel better. The engine dies, and silence settles over the property. None of us move.
My father watches me through the windshield, face unreadable. He’s aged since I last saw him. More silver in his black hair, deeper lines around his mouth. Still fit, still dangerous. The guards straighten as I exit the car, hands drifting toward concealed weapons.
“Stand down,” my father says in Spanish, voice carrying across the yard. The men relax marginally.
I approach slowly, hand resting near my own weapon. “You’re a long way from home.”
“My son doesn’t visit. I must come to him.” He doesn’t stand, just sits there in one of my porch chairs, claiming my space. His eyes, a reflection of my own, assess me coolly.
I stop at the bottom of the steps. “How did you find this place?”
A thin smile. “You think I don’t keep track of where my own son lives? That I don’t keep tabs on my blood?”
The guards watch our exchange with carefully blank expressions. I recognize one of them now. Miguel, my father’s right hand for the past decade. The other is younger, new since my departure. Both are armed and ready.
“What do you want?” I ask.
My father gestures to the empty chair beside him. An invitation. A command. “You called me for help. Sit. We have matters to discuss.”
I don’t move. “I’m busy.”
“Yes. Playing club owner while your city burns around you.” His tone is mild, but the criticism cuts. “The Russians are moving in again. Did you know? Using Phineas Draven as cover. And others.”
My jaw tightens. “I have the situation under control.”
“Do you?” He looks past me, scanning the street. “Trinity Novak shot, a car with a bomb in it, kidnapping the wife of your enemy and then sleeping with her. This is control?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You’ve been watching.”
“Of course I have.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Your brother sends his regards. He wanted to come himself, but someone needed to mind the business.”
Andres, the dutiful son. The loyal one. The one who stayed.
“Is this a social call?” I ask. “Because I have somewhere to be.”
“With your women? The wife of Draven and the little mouse from the sandwich shop?” He sees my expression darken and raises a hand. “Peace, Victor. I’m not here to judge your personal choices. I’m here because our interests have aligned.”
My legs feel heavy as I climb the steps of my own goddamn house, stopping just short of arm’s reach. “Explain.” That’s twice today that someone has referred to Grace as a mouse, and I don’t appreciate it. Not when I know her the way I do. My butterfly.
“Inside.” He rises smoothly, no wasted motion despite his age. “These matters are not for the street.”
I hesitate, then unlock the door. “Your men stay outside.”
Miguel stiffens, but my father nods. “As you wish.”
The guards remain on the porch as we enter. The house is cool and still, undisturbed since we evacuated to the club. A jacket of Lili’s hangs over the back of a chair. Grace’s textbooks are stacked neatly on the coffee table. Signs of the life I’ve built, the one he’s now invading.
My father notices them too, his eyes scanning the room. I lead him to the kitchen, unwilling to let him deeper into our private spaces.
“Drink?” I ask, heading to the liquor cabinet.
“Tequila. Neat. As long as you have the good stuff.”
I pour two glasses from a bottle of sipping tequila that costs almost three hundred dollars and slide one across the island counter to him. He takes it but doesn’t drink, watching as I take a long swallow of my own.
“You look tired, son.”
“Cut the concerned father act. Tell me why you’re here.”
He sits at the counter, sets his glass down untouched.
“The Russians are pushing into Vegas again. Using Draven, using others. They’re smarter this time.
Working through legitimate businesses, casino licenses, real estate.
Building influence with the city council and the mayor. But the goal is the same. Territory.”
I remain standing, keeping the counter between us. “And this concerns you because?”
“Because, as much as I hate to admit it, you and your friends have done a decent job of making Las Vegas a neutral territory. If it falls to the Russians, the balance shifts. West Coast routes become vulnerable. Our markets, our distribution channels.” He finally sips his tequila. “Your markets. Your territory.”
“I’m not in the family business anymore.”
“You never left.” His tone is matter-of-fact.
“You just changed venues. Your club, your casino connections, they’re all built on our name, our reputation.
You think I don’t know what you and your friends are doing here?
I’ve let it go for as long as I can, but Las Vegas will be Serrano territory again. With or without you.”
I say nothing, jaw tight.
“The Russians remember Mexico City,” he continues. “They remember what you did to their people. The man you so viciously tortured to death. They’ll come for you specifically, Victor. For your club. For your women.”
The mention of Lili and Grace sends a cold spike through me. “They can try.”
My father studies me over the rim of his glass. “You asked for my help. Protection for your girls. Now I’m here, offering more than that. Offering you a chance to finish this properly. To secure your territory permanently.”
I take another drink, letting the tequila burn off some of my frustration. Outside, the guards remain motionless on my front porch. Inside, my father waits for my response, patient as always.
We sit in silence, two predators assessing the situation, neither willing to show weakness first. The kitchen clock ticks loudly in the quiet. Finally, I set my glass down.
“Fine. Let’s talk.”
My father twirls the tequila in his glass, ice clinking against crystal. The kitchen feels smaller with him in it. “You think this is just about territory,” he says. “It’s about respect. About who holds the power in this city. Right now, no one knows. That makes Vegas vulnerable.”
“The Russians aren’t stupid enough to start a war here.” I refill my glass, needing the burn. “Too much heat, too many eyes. Maybe not everyone knows, but enough of the right people know who we are and what we control.”
“They won’t call it a war. They’ll call it business.
” His fingers tap against the counter, a rhythm I remember from childhood discussions, always preceding a lesson.
“They’re already moving pieces. The mayor’s resignation opened doors.
Your friend Draven’s apparent death created a sense of urgency.
They’re going to move before their resources dry up. ”
I lean against the refrigerator, keeping distance between us. “You’ve got a lot of information for someone who lives in Mexico.”
“Information is survival.” He says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Something you used to understand.”
The implied criticism hangs in the air. I let it, refusing to defend myself.
“Your brother tells me you’ve gone soft. Playing at legitimate business. Building a life.” He glances toward the living room, where evidence of Lili and Grace surrounds us. “I told him you were just being smart. Diversifying.”
“I don’t care what Andres thinks.”
“You should. He’s the one who brought this Grace Marsh connection to my attention.”
My hand stills on the glass. “What connection?”
My father’s eyes narrow slightly, sensing my surprise. “You don’t know.” It’s not a question. “Interesting.”
“Know what?” I keep my voice steady despite the sudden rush of adrenaline.
“Your little sandwich shop girl. She has a history with Griffin Price.”
The name hits like a punch to the gut. Griffin Price. The man who’s been trying to get into business with me and my partners. The one I have a terrible feeling about.
“What kind of history?” My voice is too tight, too controlled. He’ll notice.
“The intimate kind.” My father watches my reaction carefully. “I’ll spare you the details. She wouldn’t tell you anything about it. Not and risk what she’s found with you.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I recognize her type.” His tone is dismissive. “Pretty, damaged, looking for a protector. She found one in you. Just like she found one in that Lindon couple before you.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. “If you’re implying she’s some kind of plant…”
“I’m implying nothing. I’m stating facts.” He sets his drink down. “Griffin Price has been watching your club for months. Watching you. The question is why.”