Chapter 25 #2
We move. The inner courtyard opens before us, vast, moonlit, framed by arches and broken fountains.
Beautiful. Deadly. A kill zone disguised as elegance.
Waiting for us at the far end, stepping into the moonlight like a man welcoming guests into his home, is Silvestre Valverde, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
A smirk in place. He knows he's surrounded.
He knows he's lost. His guards are dead, and he's one of the last men standing.
Tall and proud. Old school. If he hadn't laid hands on my son, it would be admirable.
Gunfire echoes deeper in the compound, short, violent bursts. Our men are tearing through what's left of his crew. Silvestre spreads his arms. Mock-grand. "Welcome, friends."
Conti stiffens. DeSantis goes still. Oksana whistles.
I snarl low in my throat. Silvestre's gaze slides to me, assessing, measuring.
He holds his rifle loosely, like this is a negotiation instead of an execution waiting to happen.
I don't wait. I push past all of them, fury rolling off me in waves I don't bother containing.
"Where is my son?" I demand.
Silvestre lifts his rifle. The barrel settles against my chest. My men tighten their circle, metal whispers from holsters, safeties click off. The night compresses, breath held by too many killers in too small a space.
"I have no beef with you, Manetti." Silvestre sounds surprised to see me here. Whatever calculation I walked in with incinerates.
"You have my son," I snap.
Silvestre blinks with raw emotions; he's not posturing now. Real confusion creases his face. "Your… what?"
I step forward. I don't care that the muzzle presses harder into my chest.
"Senator Kingsley's grandson," I spit. "And his son-in-law."
I watch it land. Confusion first, then recognition. Then something close to horror.
"Massimo," Silvestre pronounces slowly, each word placed like a brace against collapse. "I swear to you, I had no idea."
Gunfire rattles again in the distance. I wait until the echo fades. Then I laugh. Once. Low. Empty.
"Why the fuck would that matter to me?" I growl.
I draw my gun, and it hits him in the forehead hard enough to snap his head back an inch. No warning. No hesitation.
"You took my son," I snarl. "That's the only part of this story that counts."
That's when the shitshow starts. Conti steps in, gun up, pressing hard against the side of my head. "Don't," he snarls. "He's mine."
Of course. Across the courtyard, weapons rise in reflex, Gabe first, then the rest of my men, barrels swinging toward DeSantis, Conti, Oksana.
Their people mirror us instantly. The air goes razor-thin.
One twitch. One breath too loud. And this place becomes a slaughterhouse.
Silvestre stands frozen between gods and guns, sweat beading at his temple where my barrel kisses skin.
"Everyone—" he starts.
"Shut up," I snap. "You don't get to talk your way out of this."
Conti's finger tightens. I feel it in the pressure against my skull. "You pull that trigger," his voice is cold, "and you die with him."
I don't flinch. "Then we all bleed."
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Too many grudges.
Too much blood already promised. I glance sideways just enough to catch the storm burning behind Conti's eyes.
He wants Silvestre dead. Desperately. I recognize that kind of restraint; it hums like a live wire.
This isn't an alliance anymore. It's a powder keg.
Silvestre sees it too. His eyes flick, counting barrels, exits, distances. Survivor first. Kingpin second.
"It wasn't my idea," he blurts, his voice is cracking just enough to sound real. "Someone hired us."
Gunfire cracks again, closer now. I press the barrel harder into his forehead. "Who?"
He swallows. "Let me live," he bargains. "And I'll tell you."
Conti laughs. Not loud. Not amused. "Nice try. We'll make you talk."
Silvestre's gaze darts from Conti to DeSantis to Oksana. He sees the truth written plainly: pain later. Answers first.
She steps in then, calm, deadly. Like before. "Look. I get it. He took your son."
I don't look at her. My breathing is heavy now, my chest rising like a bellows, my fury barely caged.
"If someone hired him—someone bigger, cleaner, smarter—you go after that man," she continues. "Let us have him. And his pathetic son. I swear to you, he won't find an easy end."
Her words cut through the red. She's not asking for mercy.
She's talking strategy. I don't lower the gun.
But I listen. Because the only thing that matters more than how Silvestre will die is why Amauri was taken in the first place.
And who ordered it. The math snaps into place almost immediately. Not trust. Not agreement. Delay.
Right now, if a shot is fired, nobody walks away. Too many guns. Too many men with reasons. Too many overlapping grudges pressed into too small a space. This courtyard turns into a tomb the second someone twitches.
That matters. I'm not afraid to die, but Amauri is still breathing somewhere beneath this estate, and I refuse to let my temper bury him with me. So I shift, barely perceptible. A fraction of a degree. Enough to change the equation without announcing it.
I let my eyes move and take Oksana in. Not as a woman. Not as an ally. As a variable. A weapon. Someone dangerous enough to matter. I can almost hear the numbers ticking through my head as I reassess the board. Less mess later beats total annihilation now. I look back at Silvestre.
"If I promise not to kill you," I order flatly, "you tell me who the fuck hired you."
His nod is immediate. Too fast. Desperate. "Yes. Yes."
"Now."
He hesitates, tries to bargain. "Get me out of here first," he pleads, a sly gleam slipping into his eyes. He thinks distance equals leverage. He thinks breathing buys him control.
"Non-negotiable," I stare coldly into his eyes. "You could be caught in the crossfire."
Every gun in the courtyard rises another inch. I feel it more than see it, the collective inhale, the tightening grips, the shift of weight. DeSantis is ready. Conti is ready. My men are already ahead of me. Silvestre sees it too. The gamble sharpens.
"I want your word," he presses, voice tight now. "Not to kill me. And to get me out of here alive."
I roll my eyes. This is worse than negotiating with a five-year-old. Then I nod once. Sharp. Final. Having no intentions of following through. "Yeah."
The word tastes like poison. Every instinct I have screams to put a bullet through his skull right now. End it. End the lies. End the variables. This is going to be ugly no matter what. But ugly later still beats dead now.
Silvestre straightens, just a fraction. Enough to tell me he thinks he's won. "The people who hired me," confidence creeps back into his voice with every syllable, "they're Mexican cartel."
That lands more than he understands.
"They're shielding someone," he continues quickly, lifting his hand as if to ward off the curse he knows is coming. "I don't know who, but whoever it is, they're positioning. Vegas. They want to take it."
He hasn't given me a name, but his words align.
Did they know Amauri is my son? No, I dismiss that thought almost instantly.
They would have sent demands or a finger; they took him because of Kingsley's bill.
They want the road cleared to bring in their drugs from Mexico and push me out of the picture.
The truth hits. This is all about Vegas.
My jaw locks. Vegas isn't just territory.
It's blood. Infrastructure. Legacy. A city I bled for until it knew my name.
My crown. Something hard clicks into place behind my eyes.
I still want Silvestre to suffer. That urge doesn't vanish just because I choose not to indulge it.
It coils tighter, sharper, promising patience instead of release.
Silvestre deserves pain measured in hours, not seconds.
Deserves to understand exactly what it means to touch my blood.
And that's the one currency I don't have right now. Time.
But the others do. Even if they're New York.
Even if I don't like them. Even if trusting them feels like swallowing broken glass.
After last night, after watching Conti and DeSantis move, after hearing the way they speak about vengeance, not as spectacle but as obligation, I know their grudges are as personal as mine.
This isn't business for them either. It's debt. Old, intimate, unforgiving.
As far as Oksana is concerned… she has an iron or two in this fire. I saw it in her eyes when Silvestre spoke. Not sympathy. Not mercy. Calculation sharpened by experience. She understands what I'm only just finishing mapping: Silvestre is a node, not the collector.
He didn't design this.
He was hired.
Which means there's another man out there who thought he could orchestrate this from a distance.
Thought he could hide behind cartels and borders and plausible deniability while my son paid the price.
That man matters more than Silvestre ever did.
I can let the old bastard suffer at the hands of others—thoroughly—and in the meantime, I gain something far more valuable than blood on my hands tonight.
I gain momentum. I gain allies who will bleed him for their own reasons.
I gain time to turn and face the one who masterminded this.
Silvestre is just the door. The real enemy is waiting on the other side. I lower my gun. Silvestre exhales like a man clawing his way out of a grave. I turn my head and look at Conti.
"A deal is a deal," I say evenly. "He's all yours."
Relief moves through the courtyard like a sigh. Guns lower. One by one. The air loosens.
Silvestre's face drains of color. "No—no, you promised!" he wails. "You said—"