Chapter 35 - Stephano
Raffael’s question hangs in the air like Silvestre.
I watch his face instead of listening for the answer.
Old men like him don’t panic the way younger ones do.
Panic is messy. Obvious. What crosses Silvestre’s expression is something colder, a calculation running out of options.
He doesn’t look at Aurelio. He doesn’t look at Raf.
He looks at me. That alone tells me this answer isn’t about Venezuela. It’s about New York.
"You don’t know what you’re asking," Silvestre says at last, voice steady enough to almost pass for dignity.
Raf hums. "That’s usually my favorite part."
Silvestre exhales through his nose. "The Russians came to us first."
Aurelio’s head snaps up. "You lying son of a—"
"Shut up," Silvestre barks, sharp enough to cut. "You want to live? Then learn when to keep your mouth closed."
Aurelio does not shut up. He never learned how to. "You told me that you contacted them. You wanted an alliance. You sold Aunt Marisol to the bastard when she was seventeen. Your own sister!"
Silvestre’s jaw tightens; his legs kick out toward his son. "There was an understanding. Years ago. Before your time." His gaze flicks to me again, assessing. Measuring. "Viktor Voronin wanted access. Ports. Routes. Caracas was useful. Margarita was… persuasive."
Aurelio laughs, hollow. "You sold us out for a woman."
Silvestre’s eyes flash. "I secured our future."
"By chaining us to ghosts," Aurelio snaps back. "To Russians who don’t forget and don’t forgive."
Silvestre ignores him. "Voronin promised protection. Influence. A seat at a table that would outlive us all."
"And what did you give him?" I ask quietly.
The room stills. Silvestre meets my gaze. "Blood."
Oksana inhales sharply beside me.
"A marriage," Aurelio cuts in. "A bridge that couldn’t be burned without consequences."
Silvestre curses, "Keep your mouth shut."
Aurelio’s chest is heaving. Sweat streaks his temples. He looks younger than he should. Smaller. A Don raised in a shadow that never belonged to him.
"There is a boy," Aurelio blurts.
The words hit the room like a dropped blade.
Silvestre’s head snaps toward him. "No."
Aurelio laughs again, high and hysterical now, a man finally bleeding out words he’s swallowed for decades. "Oh, fuck you, Papá. You don’t get to decide that anymore."
Raf’s smile sharpens. Oksana stills beside me, every instinct coiled tight. Even I understand what that means to the Russians. A boy with Voronin's blood is a danger to Grigori's position.
"A boy?" Raf prompts mildly.
Aurelio nods, eyes too bright. "Alexei." He looks at me, and something like vindication sparks in his eyes. "If you knew who—"
Silvestre moves. It happens so fast that my body reacts before my mind does. He swings on the chains, legs snapping out, catching Aurelio from behind. One leg snakes around his throat. The other clamps his jaw.
"No," I bark.
There’s a sickening crack. Aurelio’s laugh cuts off mid-breath. His body goes slack; his weight is dragging Silvestre down on the chains. Raf swears viciously, stepping forward too late.
"Fuck," Raf snarls. "I wanted him alive."
Silvestre lets the corpse drop like trash. It hits the concrete with a wet sound and doesn’t move again.
Silvestre pants, eyes wild now, feral with it. "You see?" he spits. "You see what happens when idiots talk?"
I step closer. Slow. Measured. "You killed your son."
Silvestre bares his teeth. "You would’ve killed him anyway."
Oksana exhales sharply. I turn toward her; her face is pale, and her expression is that of pure murderous intent. She looks almost feral. Damn, that woman is sexy.
"You’d better start talking," Raf snarls. "Because whatever you just protected?" He gestures to the body. "It was worth more to you than him."
Silvestre spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."
"Alexei," Raf tries to coax him.
Silvestre’s lips curl. "The boy," he laughs maniacally, "oh, the boy. You have no idea what kind of storm is coming for you."
"And when Voronin died?" I press.
Silvestre’s eyes flick away. Just for a fraction. "Then the boy became leverage."
Silence presses in.
Oksana’s voice cuts it, ice-clean. "You kept him alive because dead men don’t inherit."
Silvestre smiles thinly. "Smart girl."
Raf straightens slowly. "You just handed us a war."
Silvestre laughs again, blood in his teeth. "No. I handed you history."
I look down at Aurelio’s body. At the man dangling above us. At the mess they made trying to outrun ghosts.
"No," I say. "You handed us riddles, and you will give us answers."
And this time, when I step forward, Silvestre knows it too.
It takes Silvestre two days to die. Two days soaked in blood and shit.
Two days of torture from the best there are—Oksana and Raf.
They even brought Sasha in. But when a man makes up his mind to take a secret to the grave, he can endure quite a lot of pain and think himself a martyr.
We finally admitted defeat, but at least we can report to Massimo that the old man died in agony.
"I wonder if he was the last of his kind," Oksana says without turning, when I enter the lavishly decorated parlor of Aurelio's house.
She stands looking out at the backyard, where the birds are making a feast of the still-untouched dead bodies.
A few of ours were killed during the operation, and Raf arranged for them to be taken home to their families.
None of us gives a shit about the Valverde men, or the father and son, both dead now in the basement.
But everything is starting to smell. It's time to pack up and leave.
I walk to her and wrap my arms around her. She leans back into me. I know there are only two people in the world she trusts enough to allow that. Being one of them is not something I’ll ever take lightly.
She's right, though. There is a certain amount of respect I have to give Silvestre. What he endured… not many people could have taken. From what I heard, Donna Margarita and Igor both faced death with the same kind of dignity.
"I like to think that he wasn't," I answer honestly. You have to be hard in our world, or you won't make it.
"I suppose it’s time we leave," Oksana suggests quietly.
It’s not a question. It never is with her.
I nod. "There’s nothing left to bleed."
We went through everything—ledgers, safes, servers, and hard drives pulled from walls and floors like rotten teeth.
Names, routes, shell companies, old favors, and newer betrayals.
Enough to make the cartel eat itself alive.
Not enough to answer the one question that matters. Where is Alexei Voronin?
Silvestre gave us nothing.
With the old man dead, the Valverde organization will collapse the way these things always do, slowly at first, then all at once.
Lieutenants turning on each other. Brothers killing brothers.
Everyone scrambling to be the king of a corpse.
Caracas will drown in its own ambition. Unless Alexei steps forward, ignoring his Russian inheritance and claiming Venezuela as his birthright with the last of the Valverde blood in his veins.
As I move through the house one last time, something catches my eye.
It’s nothing obvious. That’s what bothers me.
A photograph left face down on a side table.
I flip it without thinking. It's a picture of Nico, smiling, relaxed, arm slung around Aurelio’s shoulder like they’re cousins at a wedding.
Two women with them, one laughing mid-motion. Champagne flutes. Night lights.
I tuck the photo back where it was, pulse steady, mind not. Nico said enough. He told us plenty. And yet—
In a corridor upstairs, I pass a room I’ve seen before. Nico’s room, I realize. Spacious. Tasteful. Too tasteful. Books in Italian, English, Spanish, and Russian. A boxing bag with fresh tape. A jacket folded on the chair like someone intended to come back for it.
Not a cell.
A suite.
It means nothing. It means everything. I don’t know yet. But the thought settles under my ribs and refuses to move.