Chapter 33 - Stephano #2
"My wife," I say, smooth as silk, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Conti."
Oksana beams at him with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. "Pleasure to meet you."
She’s lying.
She loves this.
Massimo’s eyebrows shoot up. "You got married?"
"Yes," I say, clipping the word. "Try to keep up."
"And you brought your wife," he huffs, "to Caracas."
"She insisted," I say.
"She always insists," Oksana corrects.
Massimo stares at her like she’s a puzzle he doesn’t have time to solve.
Fine. Better this way. He doesn’t need to know who she really is.
Raf steps forward, arms crossed. "What are you doing here, Manetti?"
Massimo rounds on him. "What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here? All of you? In my war zone?"
His war zone?
Interesting.
Raf tilts his head. "We have business with Valverde."
Massimo laughs; it sounds sharp and humorless. "No. You don’t."
Oksana raises a brow. "We don't?"
Massimo points at her. "You." He points at me. "And you." He points at Raf. "And definitely you—" His jaw tightens. "All three of you need to get the fuck out of Caracas before you turn a controlled situation into a fucking crater."
"Controlled?" I echo, incredulous. "Don’t tell me you’re in bed with the Venezuelans."
He steps into my space, close enough that I can smell expensive cologne and old anger. His voice drops, sharp and contained. "No. I’m containing them. There’s a difference."
I scoff. "Funny way of doing it, considering your casinos are laundering their money."
His mouth curls, not into a smile. "Funny thing about leverage," he growls calmly. "Sometimes you let it flow so you can see where it goes. And sometimes you wait until everyone forgets whose hand is on the valve."
His voice drops, final. "You want blood, take it somewhere else. Because if you light this city on fire now, you don’t just create chaos—you create collateral damage."
Raf smiles. Not wide. Not friendly. The kind of smile a man wears when he’s just spotted the hidden wire in a bomb.
"Collateral damage," Raf repeats thoughtfully.
"Yeah. That’s the part that gets messy." Raf tilts his head, casual as a man discussing the weather.
"But if what you actually need is two extractions, clean, alive—no explosions, no headlines, no congressional phone calls—then blowing up Caracas isn’t the move. "
That gets Massimo's attention. He becomes very still. Not stiff—controlled. Dangerous in the way men are when something private has just been brushed with the back of a knife.
"Careful," he warns quietly.
Raf doesn’t flinch. "I am being careful. That’s my point." He gestures toward the city beyond the glass. "Silvestre and Aurelio don’t just hold cartel leverage. They hold people. People they think make them untouchable."
For half a second, I’m lost. That pisses me off.
I don’t miss patterns. Ever. Oksana looks just as clueless as I am.
Judging by the tight line of Raf’s mouth, he knows it too, and he’s enjoying it.
The bastard wears that slow, demonic smile like a tell, dangling information like a livewire, just out of reach, waiting to see who'll reach for it first. Normally, I’d let him stew.
I’m about to ask anyway when it hits. "Vegas," I say. Flat. Certain. "Of course."
The word lands, and the room shifts into focus.
I haven’t been tracking global intel the way I usually do—normally, I know when a train derails in Japan before the smoke clears—but my attention’s been divided lately.
Still, some things punch through the noise.
A high-profile kidnapping in Vegas was one of them. The kind you don’t miss.
Carter Whitford. Senator Kingsley’s chief of staff. Groomed golden boy. And his son. Taken clean. No claims. No chatter.
Senator Kingsley—the Senator Kingsley—has been pushing a Nevada bill designed to choke drug import routes under the polished language of anti-trafficking reform.
The kind of legislation that makes cartels bleed slowly and quietly.
Kingsley also happens to be Carter’s father-in-law. The boy’s grandfather.
Leverage. Human. Obvious.
The Mexicans would benefit. So would the Venezuelans. Considering we’re standing in Venezuela, staring at the most powerful man in Vegas, who should most definitely not be here, my money is on the Venezuelans.
What doesn’t fit is Massimo.
Massimo Manetti should be toasting that bill’s failure. He should be running projections, adjusting margins, and finding new pipelines. He should not be here. Not personally. Not breathing the same air as Silvestre and Aurelio.
Massimo doesn’t run errands. He doesn’t babysit interests that aren’t his. And he sure as hell doesn’t show up unless blood is already on the table—or about to be.
Which means the kidnapping isn’t about policy.
It’s about something—or someone—he wants back.
And just like that, Raf’s smile stops looking smug. It looks informed.
I watch the realization click into place behind Massimo’s eyes. He doesn’t ask how Raf knows. He doesn’t deny it either.
"You want them alive long enough to give something back," Raf continues. "We want them dead. Those goals don’t have to compete."
Silence stretches. Thick. Loaded.
Massimo exhales through his nose, slowly. "You’re suggesting a joint operation."
"I’m suggesting," Raf says, "that we remove your problem first. Clean. Quiet. Then we deal with ours."
Massimo’s gaze shifts to me. Then to Oksana. Then back to Raf. "And if I say no?"
Raf’s smile fades. "Then we do it our way. And whatever collateral damage happens after?" He shrugs lightly. "That’s on the men who chose to sit on leverage instead of handing it over."
Massimo studies him for a long beat. I don’t look away.
"If this were just about money," I say evenly, "you’d have sent men.
" A flicker. Gone almost before it registers.
"If it were about politics," I continue in a calm voice, "you’d have sent lawyers.
" I step half a pace closer, close enough that he has to hear me.
"You came because the people taken mean something to you. "
Silence. Massimo’s jaw ticks. "Who told you that?"
It was more of a guess, but he doesn't need to know that. "We have our sources."
Oksana, never missing a beat, lifts the tension by raising a hand. "It was me. Hi."
Massimo stares at her. "What are you?"
She grins. "Complicated."
Sasha, standing by the door, murmurs in Russian, "Psychotic."
Oksana fires back in Russian, "Jealous."
Massimo looks between them like he’s stepped into a bad play.
Then he rounds on me again. "This is just a courtesy visit because of the family ties, but make no mistake, if you don't leave within the hour, I will have you removed."
"Alright, why don't we all take a deep breath, drink a vodka, and talk like adults and not like testosterone-fueled macho mafia bosses?" Oksana suggests, earning her another irritated look from Massimo.
She sighs dramatically, "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."
I blink. Who is this woman? The Oksana I know would have shot Massimo the first time he opened his mouth.
It takes but a moment for me to realize that she's doing it for me.
She doesn't care about the Cosa Nostra. Neither in New York, nor in Vegas, nor anywhere else.
She's doing this for me. To keep the peace in my family.
She's being diplomatic because she knows we have another war to fight.
Suddenly, I just want to get everyone out of here and be alone with her. Show her just how fucking much she means to me.
Massimo’s stare lingers on Oksana longer than I like. Much longer. I shift a little closer to her, and his gaze flicks back to me, not intimidated, not challenged, just… calculating.
The room goes quiet. Too quiet.
Raf breaks it first.
"Before we start," he says, lifting a hand, "I want to make one thing clear."
He pauses. "Well… two things." We all look at him. "First: I’m not drinking vodka." He points at Oksana without looking at her. "I hate that stuff."
Oksana gasps like he just insulted her ancestors.
"Second," he adds, eyes cutting to Massimo, "Aurelio is mine to kill."
Massimo rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight. "You can have him, DeSantis. I don’t give a shit who fucks Aurelio’s corpse so long as he dies screaming. I’m here for someone else."
He falls silent for so long that I think this is going sideways after all. I move to the bar—because someone has to act like we’re civilized—pouring Oksana her vodka, the top-shelf stuff. Blue Label for Raf and me, and something expensive—Vegas-level expensive—for Massimo.
He takes it without thanks. Drinks half of it like water. Then he seems to make up his mind. "Valverde took my son."
I search my memory, but the last I heard, Massimo was still a commitment-phobic bachelor. Famous for his never-ending parade of girlfriends. Legendary, really.
"I didn't know you had a son," Raf swirls the Blue Label in his glass.
"Yeah, well, neither did fucking I," Massimo runs a hand through his dark hair, for the first time allowing us a glimpse of the Vegas tycoon unraveling.
Oksana props her boots on the edge of the sofa. "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."
Massimo stares at her again. "Seriously—who the hell are you?"
I would normally laugh. But I’m too busy watching Oksana preen under the attention like a smug little demon.
"My wife," I say, savoring it, "is far too modest to say it out loud." I tip my head toward her. "She’s Metelitsa."
Massimo nearly chokes on his drink. "Metelitsa?" he echoes, sitting up straighter. "La Tempesta di Sangue? Oksana Arsenyev?"
"Oksana Conti," I correct.
Oksana shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. "I prefer Oksana, but yes."
Massimo goes still, then nods once, like a man adjusting the board mid-game. "Alright. Now we’re speaking honestly."
Raf lifts his glass. "Cheers."
Massimo looks between us—me, Oksana, Raf—sees a nightmare alliance forming in front of him. He exhales.
"Alright," he says. "Fuck it. We talk."
Finally.
He sets his empty glass down. "This is how it’s going to work: Aurelio has my son." His gaze flicks away, already done with it. "And someone who came with the package."
He looks back at us. "I’m not staying in Caracas. Whatever we do, we do tonight."
Oksana’s eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into focus.
"Silvestre isn’t sleeping at his usual residence," Massimo continues. "He moved two weeks ago. Quietly. No announcements." His mouth tightens. "But he’ll be at Aurelio’s compound tonight. They’re consolidating. Too much pressure, too many loose ends."
That gets Raf’s attention. "Both of them?"
Massimo nods once. "Same roof. Different wings." He pauses, then adds, "They’ve doubled external security and are rotating guards every four hours. Which means they’re worried about the perimeter."
I fold my arms. "Good. Because we’re not coming through it."
Massimo’s gaze flicks to him. "You have an entry vector?"
"We do," Raf is back to his usual smugness. "Underground. Old infrastructure that they still rely on."
Massimo pauses, considering, the way a man does when a missing piece finally clicks into place. "That explains the power cycling," he says slowly. "We clocked a ninety-second fluctuation every hour. Thought it was a fault."
"It’s not," Oksana says. "It’s a door."
Massimo exhales once, sharp. "Then we stop circling each other."
He looks between us, voice cool and 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."
Just like that, the board locks into place.
I meet his gaze. "You get your boy. We get answers. And blood."
Oksana lifts her glass. "Efficient. I like it. Let’s retrieve the child and remove the men who thought this was clever."
Massimo stares at her again. Longer this time. Irritated. Calculating. And—damn it—impressed.
"…Fine," he mutters. "I’ll take the help."
I watch Massimo as he says it, hear what he doesn’t bother voicing.
Men like him don’t share vengeance. They don’t subcontract it.
And they sure as hell don’t walk away from anyone who puts hands on their blood.
Aurelio and Silvestre didn’t just cross him; they took his son.
That kind of debt doesn’t get split. It gets erased.
Massimo will want them both.
Not later. Not diplomatically. Completely.
But that’s a problem for later.
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.
Once the Valverde men are in chains—or in the ground—then we can sort out whose war this really is.
And whose it becomes.