Chapter 34 - Oksana #2
For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Too many men. Too many grudges. Too much blood already promised. I glance sideways at Stephano, just enough to catch the storm burning behind his eyes. He wants Silvestre dead. Wants it badly. I can feel the restraint vibrating through him like a live wire.
This isn’t an alliance anymore. This is a powder keg. One bad decision away from war. Silvestre feels it too. I see it in the way his eyes flick, cataloging barrels, distances, exits. He’s a survivor first. A kingpin second.
"It wasn’t my idea," he blurts in a cracking voice that is just enough to be convincing. "Someone hired us."
More gunfire rings out in the distance.
Massimo’s gun presses harder into his forehead. "Who?"
Silvestre swallows. "Let me live," he says quickly. "And I’ll tell you."
Stephano laughs. Not loud. Not amused. The sound of a man who has already decided how this ends. "Nice try," he says. "We’ll make you talk."
Silvestre’s gaze darts to him, then to Raf, then to me. He sees the truth written on our faces: pain later. Answers first.
I step in before Massimo’s restraint snaps.
"Look," I say, calm and deadly and very aware that six fingers are tightening on triggers. "I get it. He took your son. If someone hired him—someone bigger, cleaner, smarter—you go after that man."
Massimo doesn’t look at me. He’s breathing hard now, chest rising like a bellows, fury caged, but barely.
"Let us have him," I continue. "And his pathetic son. I swear to you, he won’t find an easy end."
That gets his attention. Slowly, Massimo’s eyes shift to me. He assesses me. Not as a woman. Not as an ally. As a variable. A weapon. Something dangerous enough to be useful. His mind is working. I can almost hear the math.
"If I promise not to kill you," Massimo says, voice flat, eyes back on Silvestre, "you tell me who the fuck hired you."
Silvestre nods too fast. "Yes. Yes."
"Now."
Silvestre hesitates, and a sly gleam appears on his face. "Get me out of here first." Of course.
"Non-negotiable," Massimo tells him matter-of-factly. "You could be caught in the crossfire."
Silvestre thinks he’s clever. He thinks distance equals leverage. Every gun comes up another inch. I shift my stance without thinking, weight settling, breath slowing. Stephano does the same. Raf’s eyes go dark, predatory. We’re ready. Silvestre sees it.
The gamble sharpens.
"I want your word," he presses in a tight voice. "Not to kill me. And to get me out of here alive."
Massimo rolls his eyes like he’s tired of children. Then he nods once. Sharp. Final. "Yeah."
The word tastes like poison. Every instinct I have screams to put a bullet through Massimo's skull right now. One clean hit. End the variables. End the lies. I’ll regret this if I don’t. This is going to be ugly. And we all know it.
Silvestre straightens. Just a fraction, but enough. Enough to tell me he thinks he’s won.
"The people who hired me," his voice is gaining confidence with every syllable, "they’re Mexican cartel.
" He licks his lips. "They’re shielding someone. I don’t know who," he raises his hand to ward off any curses from Massimo for not holding to his end of the bargain fully, finishing with, "but whoever it is, they’re positioning. Vegas. They want to take it."
The words hit like a bomb. Even if it is not the name Massimo wanted, I can see by the set of his jaw that this resonates with him.
Looks like trouble is brewing in Vegas. Massimo stills.
A hard lock slips into place behind his eyes.
Vegas isn’t just territory. It’s blood, legacy, infrastructure. His city. His crown.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gun. Silvestre exhales like he’s just crawled out of a grave. Massimo turns his head and looks at Stephano.
"A deal is a deal," he says evenly. "He’s all yours."
Relief slips out of me in a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Stephano nods once. That’s all it takes. Guns lower, one by one. The room exhales with us.
Silvestre’s face drains of color. "No—no, you promised!" he wails, panic cracking through his voice. "You said—"
Massimo steps forward and drives his fist into Silvestre’s gut. Hard. The sound is wet. Final. The kind of hit that empties lungs and dignity in one blow. Silvestre folds with a strangled sound, retching.
Massimo leans down; his tone is laced with malice. "I don’t make promises to child snatchers and blackmailers."
Then he straightens and snaps his fingers. "Enough. Let’s go get my son."
"Where are they?" Massimo demands.
A beat.
"In the basement," Silvestre answers finally.
That’s when Raf steps forward.
"I know where it is." Lethal certainty hums from his words. "Follow me."
Weapons come up again, sharper this time.
Massimo’s men fan out instinctively, Gabe at his shoulder, more guards flanking his left.
Stephano’s hand flexes once, like he’s deciding whether tonight is the night diplomacy officially dies.
We move as one, a deadly procession through the villa’s stone hallways, lit only by emergency back-up lights sputtering in and out and the sound of slowly dying shots in the distance.
Our guys are cleaning up. Ending whoever is left of the Valverde army.
Raf leads us through a grand foyer. To the right is a large staircase, and to the left a corridor he's walking toward, opening a door to a stairwell.
We turn off our night vision and turn on our headlights.
I know this place. It looks exactly like every other mafia king's lair.
The scent in the air is of damp metal, old blood, humiliation. Pain.
This is where Raf was held. Where Aurelio tried to break him. No wonder he walks like a man entering a grave he swore he’d burn.
Silvestre lingers behind us, but he doesn’t run. He knows better.
At the bottom of the staircase, a large room opens before us. The walls are fitted with cabinets, probably filled with the usual torture instruments. The floor slopes slightly toward the middle, where a drain is located, right underneath a hanging rope from the ceiling. Efficient.
Raf points toward one wall with several doors. "Which one, old man?"
Silvestre points. Massimo shoulders past him and kicks the door open.
The stench hits first. Rot. Sweat. Fear.
Two lone figures come into view. One man, barely clinging to life, with sunken cheeks, wrists bruised, lips cracked, and a kid huddled next to him on the ground.
Even though the man is barely recognizable, I know who he is.
I make a point of memorizing everyone who thinks they're important. "That’s Carter Whitford."
Massimo exhales, barely controlled rage floods through him, and something else I can't put my finger on. I would call it grief, but how can it be grief when he's looking at his son? Only the boy is not looking up at us. Not screaming his father's name in excitement. Instead, he takes us in warily.
Massimo turns to Stephano. "Do you need backup?"
"We’ve got it," Stephano tells him. "Go. Get your people out."
Massimo nods once, something like respect passing between them, two kings recognizing each other in hell.
"Good to see you again, Conti," Massimo says. "Let me know when you’re in Vegas." He nods at me. "It's been an honor, Metelitsa."
Two of his soldiers move to the congressman immediately, working fast and efficiently, terrified of their Don’s wrath.
Then Massimo moves deeper into the room, towards the boy, who still doesn't look like he's happy to see his father, and Massimo's words come back to me.
When Stephano said, I didn't know you had a son, he responded, Neither did I.
The kid is ten, maybe eleven, wide-eyed, dirty, terrified.
Massimo crouches down to be eye level with him, keeping his voice suddenly gentle. "I’ll take you to your mamma. What do you think?"
The boy stares at him, stunned.
Massimo reaches out a hand. "Come on, little man. Let’s go home."
The kid places his shaking hand in Massimo’s.
Then Massimo exits without looking back, holding his son's hand while his men carry Whitford behind him. Leaving the rest of us in the dark of the torture chamber. Leaving us with Silvestre.
"Where is Aurelio?" Raf demands.
Silvestre shrugs and huffs, not needing to explain that his son is hiding out somewhere on the property.
"I'll find him. You good here?" Raf looks from Stephano to me.
We nod in unison like an old married couple.
Then Stephano turns to Silvestre, "Alright, enough dancing.
" His gaze locks on him. "You’re going to tell me exactly what kind of business you had with my father.
" He pauses just long enough to let it bite.
"And why you kept my brother, Nico, as a hostage for three fucking years. "
Realization hits Silvestre. The realization that he's not going to make it out of his dungeon alive. He starts laughing. It's rough, loud, and close to maniacal. "I don't care what you do, but you're not going to get a midnight confession out of me, boy."
I pull out one of my knives, a sharp stiletto that looks more like an icepick. "You know, in order to tell us, you really don't need your eyeballs."
If anything, his laughing increases so much that he has to wipe tears from my targeted area.
"Ah, little girl. Even if you have the guts to follow through, you should know that a) my pain tolerance is exceptional, b) my stubbornness even more so—and to be honest, leaving you all in the dark will be much more fun—c) You can't frighten a man who's already decided he's dead, and d) there aren't that many nerves in the eye; it's the psychological effect, which, as I already explained with c, is nonexistent. "
I almost admire the old goat. Almost. Now he just presented me with a challenge. With a quick swipe of my leg, I move him down on the ground, the air rushes out of him, and for a moment, he's speechless. Then I drive the knife into one of his balls, and he begins howling. I stand up.