Chapter 20 #2
The pieces click into place. Grace’s stalker. The flowers. The car sabotage. Could Price be involved? The timing fits. The escalation pattern fits. But why target her specifically if they have history? And why would Grace hide it from me?
Unless my father is lying to get a reaction out of me.
“This is what you came to tell me?” I ask, voice hard. “That one of my women might have connections to an enemy? So does Liliana. It comes with the territory.”
“I came to tell you that you have rats in your walls.” He stands, moving to the window that overlooks the backyard. “Price. Draven. The Russians backing them both. Your city is being infiltrated, and you’re playing house with your friends instead of dealing with it properly.”
“And what would you suggest? A bloodbath? That worked so well two years ago when Ernesto Trentini was killed. Or when you tried to take over another cartel’s territory.”
His back stiffens at the reference to the cartel war that cost us dozens of men. “I would suggest you remember who you are. What our name means.” He turns, eyes cold. “Draven needs to disappear. Permanently. Price too. Clean. Quiet. Final.”
“And have the Russians send replacements? What’s the endgame?”
“Send a message. Make it clear that Las Vegas remains neutral ground, but with conditions. Our conditions.”
I shake my head. “You want me to turn Vegas into cartel territory. To claim it for the Serranos.”
“I want you to protect what’s yours.” His voice rises slightly, the first crack in his composure. “These men threaten your women, your business, and you hesitate? The Victor I raised would have put bullets in their heads already.”
“The Victor you raised was a weapon. A blunt instrument.” I set my glass down hard enough that tequila sloshes over the rim. “I’ve built something here. Something that works. I’m not burning it down for family loyalty.”
“Family loyalty is all that matters in the end.” His voice drops, dangerous now. “When your club is ashes. When your friends turn on you. When your women leave. Family remains.”
“Is that why you’re here? To remind me of blood ties I never asked for?”
“I’m here because you called for help.” He steps closer. “Because despite everything, you’re my son. And because the Serranos protect their own.”
We stand face to face now, the kitchen island no longer between us. I can smell his cologne, the same brand he’s worn my entire life. Can see the small scar above his eyebrow from a knife fight in his youth. The familiar stranger who shaped my earliest years.
“Your Liliana,” he says suddenly. “She’s clouding your judgment. Making you hesitate when you should act.”
The glass nearly shatters in my grip. “Leave her out of this.”
“She’s already in it. They both are. Your enemies will identify your weaknesses now.”
“They aren’t weaknesses.”
“Love is always a weakness in our world.” He says it with absolute conviction. “It makes you vulnerable. Makes you compromised.”
I set the glass down before I break it. “If Price is watching us, if he’s behind the attacks on Grace, why not come at me directly? Why the games?”
My father’s expression shifts slightly. “Because he’s afraid of you. Of what you might do if provoked directly.” A hint of pride colors his tone. “He should be. We made sure of that.”
That “we” lands heavy. Full of implications about family and legacy. And the violence in my blood that he cultivated so carefully.
“Price is a sadist,” my father continues. “He enjoys the hunt more than the kill. The fear more than the pain. That makes him dangerous. Unpredictable.”
I think of Grace, her gentle smile, her quiet strength. The thought of her connected to someone like Price makes my stomach turn. But if my father considers him a serious threat, my instincts about the man were dead-on. That’s oddly comforting.
“I need to verify this information,” I say finally. “About Grace and Price.”
My father nods once, accepting this temporary concession. “Verify all you want. But don’t wait too long to act. Some threats require immediate attention.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I’ll handle it my way.”
“Your way.” He repeats the words, as if they’re the punchline to a joke. “Let’s hope your way is enough.”
My father moves through the kitchen as if he’s inspecting enemy territory.
His fingers trail along the countertops, eyes cataloging details.
The expensive coffee maker. The knife block with the custom Damascus steel set Tyson Vance bought me for Christmas.
Missing family photos, indicative of the cartel connections I’ve tried to bury.
He sees it all, the presence, and the absence.
“You’ve built a nice life here,” he says, the compliment wrapped in judgment. “Comfortable. Safe. Far from home.”
“This is home now.”
He makes a noncommittal sound, opening a cabinet and closing it. Taking liberties he feels entitled to. “A man should honor where he comes from. Where his roots are planted. The tree that grows from shallow soil topples in the first strong wind.”
I’ve heard these proverbs my entire life. The wisdom of the cartel passed down through generations.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, direct now. Tired of the games.
“I want you to stop pretending.” He turns to face me fully.
“Stop acting like you’re just another businessman.
Like you’re not Alejandro Serrano’s son, heir to an empire that stretches from Tijuana to Guatemala.
Like you don’t have responsibilities beyond this…
” he gestures dismissively at the house “…this playacting.”
“I built this life. I earned it.”
“With money from our family. Connections we provided. With the reputation of our name opening doors.” His voice hardens.
“And now you use that foundation to support others. The Englishman with his tech toys, the Irishman with his cars, and the Italian with his popstar princess. You give them the benefit of our name, our strength. They haven’t earned it. ”
“We’re partners. Equals.”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “No Serrano is equal to anyone. We lead or we die.”
The old mantra. Beaten into me since childhood.