Chapter 20 #3
“Las Vegas has become neutral ground,” he continues. “A place where families can do business without bloodshed. I can respect what you’ve built. But neutral doesn’t mean unclaimed. The Russians see that. They’re moving to take what you won’t.”
“And you think I should beat them to it? Plant the Serrano flag in the middle of the Strip?”
“I think you should stop hiding what you are.” He steps closer. “These ‘partners’ of yours, they’re using you, Victor. Using our name, our reputation, our strength. When the time comes, they’ll turn on you. Blood always recognizes blood.”
I say nothing, letting him talk himself out.
“The smart play is to bring your brother here. Establish a proper presence. Make it clear to the other families that Las Vegas is under Serrano protection. Make it official.”
“And start a war in the process.”
“Prevent one.” He taps the counter for emphasis. “Strength deters aggression. You know this. I taught you this.”
The thought of Andres in Vegas, of cartel soldiers walking through my club, of turning everything I’ve built into an extension of my father’s empire, turns my stomach into a violent storm.
“These cross-family alliances never last,” he says, voice softer now, almost conciliatory. “Look at what the Trentinis tried to start with Matteo’s father. Look at what his cousin did. And you’re here playing house with them?”
The reference to Lorenzo Trentini’s betrayal of Matteo hits harder than he knows. That wound is still fresh for all of us. But my father is twisting the facts, using them to support his worldview.
“Matteo isn’t anything like his cousin,” I say, my voice steady. “He cut those ties years ago. Just like I cut mine.”
“You think you cut ties?” He laughs again, harsher this time. “Wake up, Victor. We’re standing in your kitchen. My guards are outside your door. You never cut ties. You just pretended to. Who did you call when you needed help? Those ties are still strong, son.”
He moves to the window again, staring out at the guards. “You know I’m right. About Price. About Draven. About the Russians. They’re a cancer. You cut out cancer before it spreads.”
“And replace it with what? Cartel control? Serrano flags?”
“With order.” He turns back to me. “With family. With certainty.”
“You mean fear.”
“Fear works.” He shrugs. “It’s kept our territories secure for three generations. It will keep yours secure too.”
“This isn’t Mexico.”
“Business is business everywhere.” He drains the last of his tequila, sets the glass down with finality. “Your friends, these Sin City Suits, they’re not your family, Victor. They won’t bleed for you like blood will. They won’t sacrifice for you like I would. Like your brother would.”
My hands clench at my sides, tension building in my shoulders. Every word he speaks is designed to pull me back into the fold, to erase the years of independence, of building something that isn’t soaked in cartel violence.
“When this is over,” he continues, “when the dust settles, you’ll see I’m right. Family is all that matters. Family is all that lasts.”
I think of Matteo, Luke, and Owen. Of late nights planning the club. Of backing each other when things went sideways. Of trust built through action, not blood.
I think of Grace and Lili, of the family we’re building that has nothing to do with cartels, territories, or legacy.
“You’re wrong,” I say quietly.
His eyebrows raise, surprise flickering across his features. I’ve rarely contradicted him directly.
“We’ll see.” He straightens his jacket, preparing to leave. “The men will stay, for your protection. For the women’s protection. No arguments.”
I want to throw him out, to reject his help, his guards, his presumption. But I think of Lili’s bruised skin, of Grace’s vulnerable smile. Pride isn’t worth their safety.
“Fine,” I say. “They can watch the house. But they take orders from me. Not you. Not Andres.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “As you wish. For now.” He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Think about what I’ve said, Victor. About legacy and responsibility. About who you really are.”
I say nothing in response, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. There’s nothing I can say that wouldn’t become something I’d regret. Nothing that wouldn’t either pull me back into his world or sever ties completely. So I stand, silent and still, as he sees himself out.
Through the window, I watch him speak to the guards in rapid Spanish. Miguel nods, glancing toward the house. Toward me. They won’t leave, I know that much. Whether they’re here to protect me or to watch me remains to be seen.
The Escalade’s engine starts, rumbling in the quiet neighborhood.
My father stares at me and then glances back at my own SUV blocking him in.
It nearly makes me smirk, but he could still decide to shoot me, so I keep my expression neutral as I exit the house and walk to the driver’s side to move out of his way.
He doesn’t look back as he drives away. He doesn’t need to.
His seeds have been planted, a process set in motion.
Now he’ll wait to see which way I decide to go.