Chapter 34 - Oksana #3
"You're right, there are definitely more nerve endings in your balls than your eyes."
Stephano and Sasha wouldn't be men if they didn't wince, but only for a fraction of a second.
One of the soldiers reaches for his balls with a pained expression on his face.
When Silvestre regains his composure, he glares at me with the utmost hate in his eyes.
He'd love nothing more than to string me up and have me at his mercy.
"Up," I command at the soldiers who don't waste a second to comply and string Silvestre to the ceiling the same way he's probably done to countless others, including Raf.
He's still glaring at me.
"For the record, I'm Oksana Conti, née Arsenyev, also known as Metelitsa. You want to explore the human nerve endings with me and your level of pain tolerance?"
Recognition flickers over Silvestre's features. He laughs again, not as vigorously as before, but it's still strong. Stephano sees what I see. The man will take way too much pride and joy out of being worked over by me. He steps forward.
"As much as I love watching you at work, Tempesta di Sangue, let's not drag this out. We still have Aurelio. Let's just wait."
Raf has been gone longer than I expected. Long enough for Silvestre to start believing in the lie that time tells men like him, that maybe the worst is over. That maybe surviving the first round means there won’t be a second.
The door opens. Raf doesn’t shove Aurelio inside. He walks him in.
That alone tells me everything.
Aurelio Valverde looks nothing like the monster he’s been painted as in my head. No blood. No visible injuries. The expensive shirt is still buttoned. Hair still neat.
His eyes flick once around the room, cataloging exits that no longer matter, then fall on his father. The sound that leaves him isn’t a word. It’s a sharp inhale, surprise first, then calculation. Relief. Good. He still thinks this is a negotiation.
Raf shuts the door behind them and leans back against it, casual as a ma?tre d’. "Gentlemen," he says mildly. "Family reunion."
Silvestre snarls. "What the fuck is this?"
"A choice," Raf replies. He steps forward and places a hand on Aurelio’s shoulder, neither rough nor kind. Possessive. "I brought you to your father."
Aurelio stiffens. "You have no idea what you’re doing."
Raf smiles. It’s thin. Precise. "I do."
He gestures between them. "Here’s how this works. Whoever talks first—lives."
Silvestre laughs, wild and disbelieving. "You think I’d trust you?"
"I don’t care what you trust," Raf responds evenly. "I care who breaks first."
Silvestre turns slowly toward his son. His voice drops, controlled. "Aurelio. Don’t say a word."
That’s the wrong thing to say. I watch it land. The years between them. The hierarchy. The truth that Silvestre has always expected his son to bleed quietly while he stayed clean. Aurelio's jaw tightens. His eyes flick to me. To Stephano. To the knives. To the blood already drying on the floor.
Raf tilts his head. "Clock’s ticking."
I can't help it; this is the fun part, so I chime in, "Tick tock."
Raf steps back into the light like he owns it. He doesn’t look up at Silvestre hanging from the ceiling; he looks at the chain, the hooks, the math of pain.
Silvestre swings slightly, wrists bound above his head, ankles not touching the floor. Blood runs in thin lines down his forearms and drips, slow and patient, onto the concrete. He lifts his chin anyway. Old-school Don posture. John Wayne with a cartel budget.
"Tick all you want," Silvestre says, voice rough but steady. "You still don’t know what you’re doing."
Raf’s smile is almost polite. "That’s funny," he says. "Because I was about to say the same thing to you."
He shoves Aurelio forward under the hanging body. Aurelio staggers, catches himself, and looks up. For a second, his expression changes.
"Papá," he spits, like the word tastes foul.
Silvestre’s jaw tightens. "Don’t."
Aurelio’s laugh cracks out. Sharp. Too loud. "Don’t what? Acknowledge you? Pretend you didn’t hang me by my throat every time I disappointed you?"
Silvestre’s eyes cut to him. "Shut your mouth."
Aurelio flinches and then straightens, as if the flinch offended him. "No. I’ve shut up for years."
Raf folds his arms, watching them like a man watching two dogs circle a bone.
Stephano shifts beside me, silent, coiled.
His stillness is the dangerous kind. Aurelio turns, wild-eyed now, voice climbing.
"This is your fault. All of it. Not theirs.
" He jerks his chin toward Raf. Toward us. "Not the Italians. Not the Russians."
"The Russians," Silvestre growls, a warning.
Aurelio barrels right through it. "Yes, the fucking Russians. You brought them into our blood. You brought them into our house. Your honor—" he sneers the word like it’s obscene. "Your loyalty. Your pride."
Silvestre swings slightly, chain creaking. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
Aurelio whips his head up. "I don’t? I watched you bend our entire empire around a dead man’s name. Around a ghost in Moscow and a woman in New York."
Silvestre’s eyes sharpen at that. "Do. Not. Say her name again."
Aurelio’s mouth pulls back. "Margarita."
The air shifts. Even Raf’s smile fades a millimeter.
Silvestre’s voice goes low. "Don’t."
Aurelio steps forward until he’s directly under him, forcing Silvestre to look down at him, forcing the old man’s authority to hang over him like the chain does.
"She is a washed-out old whore," Aurelio snaps viciously. "And you worshipped her like she was a saint."
Silvestre’s face twitches, tiny, contained. Like he’s about to hit someone and remembers he can’t reach.
"Your mother would—" Silvestre starts.
"Don’t you dare," Aurelio snaps, loud again. "Don’t you dare drag Mamá into this when you spent decades crawling after Margarita’s shadow."
Silvestre bares his teeth. "You’re alive because I kept you alive."
Aurelio’s laugh turns ugly. "No, I’m alive because you needed someone to carry your sins when your hands got too old. And because the washed-out old whore only gave you fucking daughters."
Raf claps once, soft. A conductor bringing the orchestra back.
"Good," he says. "We’re warmed up."
Silvestre laughs. It’s a rasp. A cough pretending to be amusement. "You think I’ll beg."
Raf shrugs. "No." He gestures up at the chain. "I think you’ll break slowly."
Then he looks at Aurelio. "And I think he’ll break faster."
Aurelio’s gaze flicks up to his father, then away, then back, like his eyes can’t decide who he hates more: Silvestre… or the fact that Raf is right.
Silvestre watches him with something like contempt. "Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut." He orders.
Aurelio’s nostrils flare. "Still giving orders. Even like that."
Silvestre’s voice cuts. "You’re my son."
Aurelio’s eyes flash. "No. I’m your insurance policy. I’m your spare tire. I’m the thing you kept around so you never had to admit you were wrong."
Silvestre’s chin lifts. "You wanted to be Don! Now act like one."
Aurelio steps closer. "I tried. You never let me completely take over."
"Because you’re weak," Silvestre says, and it’s so casual, so final, like stating a weather report.
That one lands. Aurelio’s throat bobs. His eyes go glassy for half a second, then hard.
"Say it again," Aurelio whispers.
Silvestre doesn’t hesitate. "Weak."
Oof. There it is. The father’s favorite knife, used so often, the handle fits his palm. Aurelio’s hand trembles. Not from fear. From rage. From grief he refuses to name. From a lifetime of swallowing the same poison.
"And you think you’re strong?" Aurelio says, voice shaking now. "You’re hanging from a ceiling."
Silvestre smiles. Bloody. Proud. "And you’re still looking up at me."
Stephano gives a low chuckle. "Damn," he murmurs, almost admiring. "He really raised you."
I shift my weight, letting the heel of my boot scrape once on the concrete.
Both sets of Valverde eyes flick to me, instinctively. Predator recognizing huntress.
"Enough," I say, mildly.
Silvestre’s gaze lingers on me, calculating, the old fox. "Russian," he spits like it’s a slur.
"Careful," I tell him. "I’m in a charitable mood. Don’t waste it."
Aurelio’s laugh cracks again. "See?" he snaps at Silvestre. "This is what you did. You brought them here. You and your stupid honor and your stupid—"
"Don’t," Silvestre says again, but now it’s not a warning. It’s a plea. Aurelio hears it. His expression twists. Like he hates himself for hearing it.
"You made us believe we were untouchable," Aurelio shakes his head. "That we were kings because you had deals with ghosts. But the ghosts are real, aren’t they? Moscow. New York. Voronin."
Silvestre goes very still.
Oh.
That landed where it was supposed to.
Raf’s head tilts, eyes sharpening. Stephano’s posture changes fractionally, but I feel it.
Aurelio sees their reactions and realizes he just stepped on a live wire.
His voice turns desperate, quickening. "It’s the Russians’ fault," he blurts, like he can throw blame like sand and blind everyone.
"It started with them. With Voronin. With Marisol. With—"
Silvestre’s voice becomes a whip. "Shut. The fuck. Up."
Aurelio jerks, startled by the force of it. Silvestre swings in his chains, face twisted, eyes blazing with something that looks like fear, and Silvestre Valverde does not do fear.
Raf’s smile returns, slow and cruel.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "This is going to be fun."
He steps forward, softening his voice into something almost gentle, almost fatherly, which is the most terrifying thing Raf can do.
"Alright," he says. "We’ll start simple." He looks up at Silvestre. "What deal did you and the Russians make?"