Chapter 23 #3
"Alright," her voice is still cheerful, as if we're discussing seating arrangements instead of forced removal, "why don't we all take a deep breath, drink a vodka, and talk like adults and not like testosterone-fueled macho mafia bosses?
Let's find out if we have any common ground here first, and if we don't…
" she trails off, shrugs, "then we can start making threats. "
The words are flippant. The timing is not.
She's not negotiating terms. She's buying time.
And the room responds. I feel it before I see it.
Raffael doesn't interrupt. Conti doesn't assert himself.
Even the Russian by the door eases by a fraction, like the pressure dropped a degree.
I don't move. But I notice. This woman isn't just surviving proximity to power.
She's managing it. Steering momentum sideways instead of blocking it.
Creating space where there shouldn't be any. That's rare. And extremely dangerous.
Who the hell are you?
The room goes quiet. Too quiet. Raffael breaks it first.
"Before we start," he asserts, lifting a hand, "I want to make one thing clear."
He pauses. Smiles faintly. "Well… two things."
Everyone looks at him.
"First: I'm not drinking vodka." He points at her without looking. "I hate that stuff."
She gasps like he's insulted her ancestors.
"Second," he continues, eyes cutting back to me, "Aurelio is mine to kill."
My shoulders roll back slowly, muscle memory kicking in. The room tightens again.
"You can have him, DeSantis," I lie evenly, not intending to give up on my revenge at all. "I don't give a shit who fucks Aurelio's corpse so long as he dies screaming. I'm here for someone else."
Silence follows. Long enough that I consider whether I've misjudged this pause, whether this is where things fracture instead of align.
But then Conti heads for the bar and starts pouring.
Civilization, apparently, still exists. I watch him work with mild contempt and reluctant curiosity.
Top-shelf vodka for his wife. Blue Label for Raffael and himself.
An expensive bourbon for me. He hands it over.
I take it without thanks and swallow half of it down like water. The burn does nothing to settle me. But it does buy me a moment. And in that moment, I decide to level with them. At least for now. "Valverde took my son."
The room shifts instantly. Raffael blinks. Once. Genuinely surprised.
"I didn't know you had a son," he swirls the Blue Label in his glass.
"Yeah," I reply, running a hand through my hair before I can stop myself, "well. Neither did fucking I."
The admission costs me more than I let show. It cracks the edge of my control just enough to be noticed. By her. She props her boots on the edge of the sofa, posture casual, expression anything but.
"So," she says with bright cheerfulness that is one hundred percent fake, "we're all on the same page, then. We go in, get Massimo's son, get our answers from Silvestre and Aurelio, kill them, and go home. The end."
I stare at her again. Longer this time. I'm curious. "Seriously, who the hell are you?"
Conti answers for her, amusement flickering behind his eyes.
"My wife," he says, savoring it. "Is far too modest to say it out loud." He tips his head toward her. "She's Metelitsa."
The name hits like a blade between the ribs. I nearly choke on my drink. Of course I've heard of the famous Russian assassin. They call her the Blizzard; she comes in like the cold, hits like a blizzard, and leaves only corpses in her wake.
"Metelitsa?" I echo, sitting up straighter. "La Tempesta di Sangue? Oksana Arsenyev?"
"Oksana Conti," she corrects mildly. "I prefer Oksana, but yes."
I go still. Not shocked. Recalculating. That explains the posture.
The timing. The way she bent the room without ever touching it.
It also changes the map. Both Conti and DeSantis have a reputation for ruthlessness, but with her on board…
it might change how I approach the outcome of this operation. I nod once.
"Alright," my mind is already working through possibilities. "Now we're speaking honestly."
Raffael lifts his glass. "Cheers."
I look between them—Conti, Oksana, DeSantis—and see it clearly now. A nightmare alliance. Not one I asked for. Not one I trust. But one that exists whether I like it or not. I exhale.
"Alright," I drink the rest of the bourbon. "Fuck it. We talk."
I set the empty glass down.
"This is how it's going to work. Aurelio has my son." My gaze flicks away, already done with the admission. "And someone who came with the package."
I look back at them. "I'm not staying in Caracas. Whatever we do, we do tonight."
Oksana's eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something lethal.
"Silvestre isn't sleeping at his usual residence," I continue. "He moved two weeks ago. Quietly. No announcements." I do what I've never done before; I lay my cards on the table. "But he'll be at Aurelio's compound tonight. They're consolidating. Too much pressure. Too many loose ends."
Just like here, too many people in this room who want answers. I don't trust them. But it wouldn't hurt to know why they're here.
My words get DeSantis's attention. "Both of them?"
I nod once. "Same roof. Different wings." I let the implications hang for a beat before adding, "They've doubled external security and rotated guards every four hours." I watch their reactions closely. "Which means," I finish, "they're worried about the perimeter."
Which they should be.
Conti folds his arms. "Good. Because we're not coming through it."
My gaze snaps to him. Sharp. Interested. "You have an entry vector?"
Raffael's mouth curls back into that familiar smugness. "We do. Underground. Old infrastructure that they still rely on."
Something inside me clicks. Of course, the Valverdes would have tunnels. It also explains, "That explains the power cycling. We clocked a ninety-second fluctuation every hour. Thought it was a fault."
Oksana speaks before anyone else can. Calm. Certain. "It's not." She meets my eyes. "It's a door."
The board is finally making sense. The doubled perimeter. The rotations. The nervous consolidation. Men who believe walls keep them safe always forget what's beneath their feet.
"Then we stop circling each other," I propose.
I look between them—Conti, DeSantis, Oksana—voice cool, final. "I don't care who claims which corpse. We can argue about spoils and grudges after my son is safe and their leverage is dust."
Conti nods once. "You get your boy. We get answers. And blood."
Oksana lifts her glass again. "Efficient. I like it. Let's retrieve the child and remove the men who thought this was clever."
I stare at her. Longer this time. And—damn it—impressed.
"…Fine," I mutter. "I'll take the help."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know the truth of it.
Men like me don't share vengeance. We don't divide it.
And we sure as hell don't forget who put hands on our blood.
Aurelio and Silvestre didn't just cross me.
They took my son. That kind of debt doesn't get negotiated.
It gets erased. Not later. Not diplomatically. Completely.
But that reckoning can wait. For now, we're aligned, temporary allies with overlapping targets and a shared deadline. Tonight, we get inside. Tonight, we take back what was stolen and burn their leverage to ash. After that?
We'll see whose war this really was.
And whose it becomes.