Chapter 3
The meeting
Luca stepped out of the sleek, black car, the Mexican sun immediately searing against the back of his neck, the heat pressing in from every direction. It was a different world here; open skies, the dry smell of dust in the air, a far cry from his home town. This wasn't the tightly controlled, organized chaos of New York; this was raw. Unfiltered.
The car’s engine hummed as it idled, and Luca took a moment to adjust his tie. His black suit clung to him in the sweltering heat, but his expression was unmoving, every inch the professional as he surveyed his surroundings. The tie around his neck was to tight, making him feel like he was suffocating, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about comfort. This was about making an impression.
The ranch sprawled ahead of him, a vast stretch of land under the cloudless sky, surrounded by heavy woods. It was nothing like the estates and penthouses of New York or the polished villas of Sicily. This was raw, open country, where power wasn’t flaunted with gold-plated chandeliers but with the quiet presence of armed men stationed along the perimeter, their gazes sharp, their hands never far from their weapons.
As they were admitted through the large gates, the main house loomed in the distance, a sturdy, two-story structure with weathered stone walls and wide porches that overlooked the expanse of land. It wasn’t grand, but it carried the weight of something just as formidable; history, control, and the kind of authority that didn’t need embellishment to be felt.
Luca stepped out of the car, his boots crunching against the dirt driveway as he took in his surroundings. Heat pressed against him like a suffocating second skin, the sun burning high in the sky. He rolled his shoulders, ignoring the way his shirt stuck to his back. He wasn’t used to this kind of heat, the way it clung and lingered, refusing to be shaken off.
A man near the entrance, broad-shouldered, his hand resting casually on a holstered pistol, gave him a slow once-over before jerking his chin toward the house. No words exchanged, just an understanding. Luca was expected.
His steps were steady as he approached, his fingers brushing against the cuff of his sleeve, where a blade was tucked out of sight. Not that he expected this to turn bloody; yet. But in places like this, in meetings like this, you never walked in unarmed.
The wooden porch creaked under his weight as he reached the front door. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t meant to impress. Just thick, reinforced wood that had seen its share of men walking through it, some leaving with new fortunes, others never leaving at all. He pushed it open without hesitation, stepping inside.
The air within was cooler, but thick; laced with the heavy scent of cigars and aged whiskey.
Luca moved through the house, his eyes flicking over the details that spoke to Castillo’s way of life. The dark wooden floors were worn but polished. Mounted hunting trophies lined the walls; stags, a bear, even a jaguar, its glass eyes gleaming under the dim light. It wasn’t just decoration; it was a message. Everything here had been hunted, conquered, claimed .
A long hallway stretched ahead, armed men stood at quiet intervals; their presence quiet but heavy. Luca passed a sitting room where a fireplace stood unlit, a dining table large enough to seat a dozen men, and finally, a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
One of Castillo’s men stepped forward, rapping his knuckles twice against the wood before pushing the door open. Without hesitation, Luca motioned for his own men to wait outside before he stepped in.
The room was wide, the walls lined with dark wood and leather-bound books that probably hadn’t been touched in years. A massive mahogany desk sat in the center, its polished surface reflecting the dim light from the low-hanging chandelier above. The furniture was solid, understated, chosen not for style but for function. Everything here had a purpose.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft thud, the final sound of separation from the outside world.
Luca’s footsteps were deliberate, each one echoing in the silence of the room. His eyes locked onto Miguel's the moment he stepped inside, measuring the man in front of him with the practiced gaze of someone accustomed to assessing threats and opportunities alike. Miguel hadn’t moved since Luca entered, still lounging in his chair, a cigar dangling lazily from his fingers, waiting for Luca to break the silence.
He placed the briefcase down with a soft but definitive thud, the sound filling the otherwise quiet room. His fingers lingered on the edge of the case for a moment, as if to remind Miguel that the time for games was over. Then he straightened, his expression a mask of cold calculation.
“You know why I’m here,” Luca said, his voice low, but carrying an undeniable weight; like a command wrapped in a question.
Miguel exhaled a slow plume of smoke, the amber of his cigar flaring briefly before the smoke curled into the stale air between them. “I know why you’re here. But that’s not enough. You’ve got to make me care, Moretti.”
Luca’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “The Morettis are in a unique position,” he said, his voice even, measured. “We’ve got the capital, the strategy. What we lack is manpower. More muscle on the ground, more product, and the right alliances to move into the void left by Don Vito’s little plot.” He let the words hang heavy, the implication of revenge sharp and final. “You know what happened. Vito crossed a line. He killed half of the families. And he tried to kill us. We returned the favor.”
Miguel’s expression shifted, there was no mistaking the flicker of intrigue in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, the cigar between his fingers forgotten for the moment. “The power vacuum Vito left behind,” he murmured, his voice dark with understanding. “The families are scrambling for control, but you’re here, looking to fill that hole, aren't you?”
Luca nodded once; his gaze unflinching. “Exactly. The families are weak right now, and, with time, they’ll fall on each other, but we don’t have the luxury of time. We need to move fast; take over the reigns before someone else does. And that’s where you come in.”
Miguel raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching Luca carefully. He took another drag from his cigar, the smoke curling up slowly as the gears in his mind turned. He wasn’t ready to make a decision yet, Luca knew. Not until he had more.
Luca leaned in, his voice dropping a fraction, as though speaking something too important to be shouted. “We need more product. We need larger distribution. And we need muscle on the ground; something to show the other families that we’re not just some half-baked operation trying to survive. We’re here to take over. We need you to help us make that happen.”
Miguel’s eyes narrowed. “And you think I’m just going to hand over product to you?” he asked, his voice low, laced with disbelief. “You think I’m just going to trust the Morettis after what’s happened with the Italians? After what you did to Vito?”
Luca didn’t flinch. His gaze hardened, but his tone remained calm. “You’re right. We’ve spilled a lot of blood. The kind of blood that doesn’t wash away easily. But I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to trust that we are the ones who can deliver what we’ve promised. You’re in a position to rise above the rest, but only if you move quickly. The families will tear each other apart if no one steps up. And I can guarantee that if you don’t partner with the Morettis, you’ll be buried under the rubble.”
Miguel was quiet for a long moment, his face unreadable, before he slowly took another drag from his cigar. Luca knew he was being measured, scrutinized. He could feel the tension; the weight of the decision Miguel was working through. It wasn’t just about power or alliances; it was about survival in a rapidly changing landscape.
Finally, Miguel spoke, his voice no longer taunting but pragmatic. “What do you want from me, Moretti? Be specific.”
Luca exhaled; his gaze unwavering. “I want product. The kind that will put us ahead of the rest of the families. I need the Castillo Cartel’s distribution routes, the ones that can move product faster, farther, and without drawing the wrong kind of attention. You’ve built something that works. And I can give you something in return. Money, more territory, and the muscle to hold it.
“The Morettis with help from De Lucas and the Rossi family can secure places no one else can touch, places that will be ripe for expansion once we’ve taken control. We’ll strike first, while they’re distracted, and make sure the chaos works in our favor. By the time the dust settles, we’ll be the ones left standing.”
Miguel’s eyes darkened as Luca spoke, the names De Luca and Rossi obviously sparking interest, though his face remained unreadable.
“You’ve got balls, Moretti. I’ll give you that,” Miguel said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Luca’s eyes never left him. “Vision is what we have. The Morettis aren’t here to settle for scraps.”
For a long, drawn-out moment, Miguel said nothing. The tension in the room felt like it could snap at any moment. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Alright, Moretti,” Miguel said slowly, his voice gaining an edge. “You’ve got a deal. But you’d better be able to back up everything you’ve promised. If you fail, it’s not just your family that’s in the crosshairs.”
Luca’s gaze never faltered. “You won’t regret it, Castillo. You’ll get everything you need. And when we’re through, the Morettis will be untouchable, and you will be beside us.”