Chapter 17
The next day…
Enzo doesn't sit until I tell him to. That alone tells me he already knows this isn't a normal meeting.
The office is quiet, the blinds are half drawn, Vegas is still pretending it's just another morning.
I stare at the strip outside. By daylight, the city looks like a beautiful whore without makeup.
No shadow. No illusion. Just harsh angles and exhaustion you're not supposed to notice.
Cracks in the paint. Stale air. Regret clinging to everything like smoke that never quite clears.
This is why we build without windows. Why we run tunnels under the city.
Why we dim the lights, blur the edges, and keep the clocks out of sight. People can't see reality and keep losing money. They need darkness. They need noise. They need to be drunk enough on light and sound and promise to forget that the magic is manufactured.
So we keep them inside. We keep them distracted. We keep them wanting.
Vegas only works if you never let it wake up. I stand at the glass anyway, watching the city stripped bare by the sun, and think about my son somewhere far away, exposed to men who don't bother with illusion at all.
I don't care if this city falters while I'm gone.
Illusions can be rebuilt.
Blood cannot.
Enzo knows me well enough to sit in the silence until I break it. "I'm going to Venezuela."
He doesn't blink for a few seconds. "Venezu-fucking-ela?" he curses. "What the hell for?"
"I have to get my son," I state simply. The words hang there, heavy, undeniable.
Enzo frowns. Just slightly. "Your… son?"
I watch the way the pieces shift behind his eyes, rearranging themselves into something that finally makes sense. Kingsley. The helicopter. The boy.
"Oh," he says quietly. Then, "Fuck me."
"Yeah," I agree. "My son."
He drags a hand down his face, exhales hard. "Kingsley's grandson is—"
"Mine."
Silence detonates between us.
"That's why," Enzo says slowly. Not a question. "That's why this isn't negotiable."
"Gabe's already moving," I fill him in. "Boots on the ground. Intel. I'll be in and out. Two days. Max."
"No, you don't want—," Enzo snaps. He reins it in fast, but the damage is done. "This will send the wrong message. You disappear now, and every vulture in this city will smell blood."
"I won't be disappearing."
"You'll be out of the country," he points out sharply. "That's the same thing."
I lean back against my desk, grabbing the headrest of my chair. Calm. Deliberate. "I have to get my son, Enzo."
Enzo exhales hard, scrubs a hand over his face. "I'll go."
I don't answer.
"I know the terrain," he presses. "I have the contacts. I can get in and out without the entire underworld lighting up."
"It has to be me."
"Why?" His voice cracks just enough to give him away. "Because it's personal?"
"Yes."
"That's exactly why you can't go," he fires back. "You're the king. You don't chase. You don't expose yourself like this."
I stand. The chair slides back quietly. Final. "As you already pointed out, this is not negotiable."
"And what happens to everything you've built if you don't come back?" Enzo asks. "If you die—"
"I won't."
He laughs. Short. Bitter. "You sound like every man who ever thought love made him invincible."
I step closer, lowering my voice. "No, this isn't about love. Love hesitates."
I meet his eyes. "This is about responsibility. About my son."
That does it. Enzo bows his head. Just a fraction. Submission, not defeat. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to reach out to New York. Quietly. Find out if they're willing to remind Kingsley how much he owes them. I want everything he knows, before I land."
Enzo pulls out his phone. He's loyal. He always has been. I won't punish him for fighting me; that's his job.
"What do I tell them?" he asks.
I don't hesitate. "As little as possible."
Enzo nods once, already dialing, already shifting into motion. He stops at the door.
"You think this has anything to do with the poison?" he asks. "With what's happening on the streets?"
I don't hesitate, "No. This is separate."
He turns back, searching my face. "You're sure."
"The Venezuelans don't play games like that." I'm positive on this. This is nothing but a coincidence, bad timing. "They don't undermine markets. They flood them. Whatever's poisoning my product is someone else's work."
"And Venezuela?" he presses.
"They have no idea what they started."
Enzo absorbs that, then straightens. "While you're gone?"
"You watch everything," I order. "Every shipment. Every test. Every whisper. I want eyes on the distributors, the warehouses, the drivers. I want to know what the streets are saying about me."
"And if the rumors start moving?"
I reply, "You don't chase the mouths. You find who's feeding them."
He nods. Once. Final.
"I'll keep the city steady," he promises.
"I know."
He leaves to make the call.
I don't sit. I call Damiano.
He answers before the second ring finishes. "I was just about to call you, boss."
That alone tightens something in my chest.
"Talk," I say.
"There's noise," he tells me. "Not loud. Not yet. But it's old."
I stop moving. "Old how?"
"Like something that remembers," he picks his words carefully. "South side. A few guys saying Mexico's stirring. That a debt nobody talks about is waking up."
A familiar cold settles under my skin. "What kind of debt?"
Another pause. Damiano chooses his words like they might detonate. "Blood. From long ago. Maybe your father."
I close my eyes for half a second. Not in surprise. In calculation. Mexico doesn't move on ghosts. Cartels move for profit. Territory. Opportunity. Not memory. Blood from long ago isn't a cartel problem. It's a lineage problem.
Vendettas don't need announcements. They don't need flags or press or noise. They just need time. And time is something my family has never lacked.
"Who's saying this?" I want to know.
"Nobody specific. Which is what makes it dangerous."
Nobody specific means it isn't rumor. It's circulation. Whispers that test the temperature before the knife comes out.
"Keep listening," I tell him. "Don't move."
"Yes, boss."
The line goes dead.
I stand alone in my office, the city humming outside as if nothing is wrong.
Venezuela is a problem.
But this?
This feels like the past deciding it's done waiting. And I've learned the hard way—when old ghosts stir, they never come alone.