Chapter 23
Tourist trap is the first word that comes to mind.
Not a cheap one, no. This is the upper ceiling of what the middle class can afford.
The kind of place people save for. Splurge on.
Brag about afterward. High-end enough to feel special, accessible enough to stay full year-round.
I know this tier intimately. I make a fortune off it.
The lobby is a riot of shine and noise. Polished brass everywhere. Oversized chandeliers dripping light meant to overwhelm rather than illuminate. The floors are composite stone veined to suggest luxury. Convincing at a glance. A lie if you look twice.
Where my hotels use real marble—cold, heavy, cut clean—this place uses imitation.
Already scratched if you know where to look.
Scuffed along the edges where rolling suitcases have chewed through the illusion.
Corners dulled, chips hastily filled and buffed smooth under aggressive lighting designed to hide wear. It almost works.
The people complete the picture. An international assortment drifts through the lobby, phones always out, skin sunburned instead of pale.
Families instead of escorts. Couples in matching outfits, children tugging on hands, voices loud with excitement.
They think they've arrived somewhere important.
That's the trick. My properties don't try to impress.
They don't have to. Real luxury doesn't announce itself.
It doesn't beg to be believed. It settles into the bones.
It makes you feel small without ever telling you why.
This place does the opposite. Everything is overstated. Gaudy. Designed to convince the middle-class tourist that they've crossed a line into exclusivity. That they're brushing shoulders with wealth and power. It's an illusion. Which is why it matters.
Conti and DeSantis didn't choose this hotel because it was convenient.
They chose it because it disappears into noise.
No Valverde welcome. No armored convoy. No visible alliance.
Just anonymity wrapped in gold paint. They didn't want to be hosted.
They wanted to be overlooked. Everything about this place says one thing clearly: they didn't come to Caracas for comfort. They came for blood.
I move through the lobby without slowing, cataloging exits, sightlines, and reflections in mirrored columns. The illusion hums around me, loud and oblivious.
I reach the floor with Conti's and DeSantis' room.
A guard answers my knock. He looks more Russian than Italian.
Curious. Recognition flickers in his eyes, quick, instinctive.
He doesn't know me personally, but he knows of me.
Men like him always do. Before he can say anything, movement behind him catches my attention.
Raffael DeSantis strides forward like he is already on his way out.
He stops. Stares at me like he's just seen a ghost.
For a fraction of a second, I enjoy it.
"Massimo?" he says, disbelief threading the word.
"DeSantis," I reply evenly, like we're passing each other at a charity gala instead of colliding in a city soaked in cartel blood.
I step inside without waiting for permission. Two of my men follow. The others remain outside; it's a deliberate move. I don't want a war, but I'm willing to wage it. This isn't a show of force. It's a statement of confidence. If this turns violent, it won't be because I brought an army.
The Russian stiffens behind me. Uneasy now. He doesn't like surprises, and I'm very clearly one.
Raffael lifts a hand slightly, palm down. "Easy, Sasha," he says, almost amused. "I think he's friendly."
Friendly. I don't correct him. He gestures me further in, and I let him, eyes already moving, cataloging.
It's exactly like the rest of the hotel.
Designed to impress at first glance. Faux satin drapes catch the light just enough to look expensive from a distance.
Gold-toned accents that are a shade too bright.
Furniture with curves meant to suggest indulgence, not comfort.
Everything here is staged. Luxury as performance. There's no personal imprint. No art. No books. No signs anyone intends to stay longer than necessary.
My eyes flick to the woman on the sofa. At first glance, I categorize her the way I've categorized a hundred others over the years: decoration.
Beautiful. Placed. The type of woman a powerful man keeps nearby because she looks good in the frame and knows when to stay quiet.
The kind who orbits money and violence without ever touching either directly.
She's dressed for it, too. Effortless. Controlled. Nothing accidental. Raffael's, maybe. Or Conti's.
That assumption lasts exactly one second too long.
Because she doesn't avert her gaze or try to flirt with me.
She watches me openly, chin tipped just enough to be curious, not deferential.
There's no hunger there. No calculation of what I might give her.
No practiced softness. Instead, there's something sharp.
Alert. A gleam of danger in her eyes that doesn't belong to women who exist to be entertained. That gives me pause.
I adjust the mental box I'd put her in, slide it aside entirely. She doesn't fit. Not quite. And I've learned the hard way that when something almost fits, it's usually the thing that cuts deepest. Interesting.
For now, the air is thick with recalculation. Raffael's surprise has already cooled into interest. The Russian's hand hovers near his weapon, unsure. The woman's gaze lingers, measuring.
They didn't expect me.
That plays in my favor. Because that means whatever they're planning, I just walked into the middle of it. No one here yet knows whose blood will actually flow this night.
Stephano Conti is the next person I clock. Relaxed posture. Watchful eyes. The kind of man who doesn't look dangerous because he doesn't need to advertise it. He stands dead center, like he owns the place. That alone irritates me.
"What the fuck," I snap before the door even closes, the words leaving my mouth sharp and unfiltered, "are you doing in this dump?"
Classic Vegas diplomacy. I don't soften it.
There's no point. I scan the room automatically.
Raffael's hand hovers near his holster, good instincts.
Sasha's positioning is tight. The woman still looks like she's on vacation, which makes her the most dangerous person here by default. My gaze catches on her again.
"Who's she?" I demand.
Stephano answers without missing a beat. "My wife. Mrs. Conti."
She smiles. Sweet. Tooth-rotting. Fake. "Pleasure to meet you."
She's lying. Stephano getting married is news to me. I didn't expect an invite, but I do try to keep up with the other families' affairs. "You got married?"
"Yes," Conti's voice is clipped, proprietary. The new Mrs. Conti means something to him. "Try to keep up."
"And you brought your wife," I huff, "to Caracas."
"She insisted."
"She always insists," she corrects lightly.
I stare at her longer than necessary. Something about her doesn't sit right. Not just confidence, precision. Like she's cataloging everything while pretending not to care. I don't have time for puzzles.
Raffael steps forward. "What are you doing here, Manetti?"
I round on him immediately. "What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here? All of you? In my war zone?"
The words are out before I can stop them. My war zone. Interesting, the way it sounds out loud.
Raffael tilts his head. "We have business with Valverde."
Valverde is mine, and they better understand that right fucking now. "No. You don't."
Mrs. Conti raises a brow. "We don't?"
I don't know what business they think they have here, and I don't care.
Whatever this is, it's noise. Secondary.
The kind of amateur theatrics men mistake for power when they're playing at war instead of waging it.
This isn't their stage. I don't have the time, patience, or inclination to let a second-rate, imported spectacle interfere with what I came here to do.
I point at her. Then Conti. Then DeSantis. "You. And you. And definitely you. All three of you need to get the fuck out of Caracas before you turn a controlled situation into a fucking crater."
"Controlled?" Conti echoes, incredulous. "Don't tell me you're in bed with the Venezuelans."
I step into his space deliberately, close enough that he can smell the tension on me.
"No," I growl calmly. "I'm containing them. There's a difference."
I hear the truth in my own words. Containment isn't submission.
It isn't partnership. It's pressure applied so precisely that the target doesn't realize it's already trapped.
You let the poison move. You let the money flow.
You watch who touches it, who skims, who panics when the tap tightens by a fraction.
That's how you learn where the rot is.
He scoffs. "Funny way of doing it, considering your casinos are laundering their money."
My mouth curls, not a smile. Of course, he knows.
Because men like Stephano Conti don't make accusations unless they're certain.
Because laundering leaves fingerprints, no matter how clean you think you are.
And because if you run drugs long enough, you learn to recognize the difference between money that moves through you and money that belongs to you.
I don't deny it. There's no point. They do pass money through my houses. Not because I need it. Not because I answer to them. But because it's easier to watch a river when it flows through land you control.