Chapter 20
The jet pitches low over the brown haze of Caracas.
I’m leaning forward, my palms are slick, and my pulse is thrumming like a warning flare, when my burner phone starts vibrating.
I snatch it up before the second ring, my eyes flick to Pierre, who’s hunched over a laptop across from me, and then to Mario, who’s already buckled in and scanning the tarmac through the window like there’s a sniper waiting for us on every rooftop.
I answer. It’s Valentina, my eyes and ears in half the airports south of the equator. She talks in clipped Spanish, "They’re here, boss. Roberto, Sophia, and Donna Margarita. Their jet landed early this morning."
For a moment, I can’t even process the last name she dropped. "Donna Margarita?" The jet brakes hard, slamming me back, and I almost drop the phone.
Valentina confirms it. "Sí."
I close my eyes and imagine her face: Donna Margarita Giordano, matriarch of the Giordano family, eyes black as volcanic glass, cheekbones so sharp they could probably gut a man.
I've seen her a few times, and she’s looked through me like she does through all the foot soldiers.
I’ve heard stories that she married off all three daughters to rival clans—two for power, one for spite.
That she is behind the death of her late husband, and that she is running the Giordano family.
Legends, but the kinds that gain traction because they’re close enough to being possible.
I picture Sophia surrounded by that kind of darkness, and the seatbelt buckle digs into my palm until my fingers ache.
We taxi straight to a private hangar, where several black SUVs are waiting for us.
Mario's on the phone as soon as the door pops, speaking in a low growl to his contacts on the ground. Without being bothered by passport control or customs, our group heads straight for the armored SUVs. I catch my own reflection in the glass—shadowed, jaw locked, eyes already mapping the city like I’m fighting it—and I get that old taste in my mouth, carbon and copper, the flavor of impending violence.
Inside the SUV, I take the laptop from Pierre and swipe through the images he’s already assembled.
The airport CCTV footage is grainy, but it’s them.
Roberto’s easy to pick out, with that lazy swagger and a suit that costs more than most cars on this street.
Sophia is behind him, looking, as always, like the goddess she is.
There’s a tremor in her walk, and I wonder how I had ever missed that before.
Next to them is Donna Margarita, flanked by two massive men in matching black.
Her tight blood-red dress makes her stand out and look much younger than her seventy-something years.
An illusion, like everything else about her.
The group moves through the airport like a procession.
People scramble out of their way by instinct, no doubt sensing the predators in their midst.
I flick to the next set of photos: the black stretch limo that picks them up, the route it takes out of the city, the stop at a nondescript high-rise in Las Mercedes—probably a safehouse or a war room—before the final leg through the traffic-choked sprawl toward the coast. Pierre overlays the data, and I see it now: the destination is a cliffside mansion overlooking the Caribbean.
The property is tagged in the dossier, and the owner’s name jumps out at me: Don Aurelio El León Valverde.
I turn to Mario, who’s been reading over my shoulder. "You know this guy?"
He grunts. "Never met him, but know enough to know you don’t want to.
He’s a legend here. Runs the ports, the city, the airspace.
Controls the police, the unions, all the dirty work.
Even the cartels don’t mess with him unless they have to.
Rumor has it his father tried to get his legs into New York; it looks like the son is trying now. "
Pierre adds without looking up, "His security is ex-FARC, ex-military, and ex-KGB. A hybrid pack of psychos."
I chew on that, watching the city go by.
The last time I tried to hit a house modeled after a fortress, I lost two guys and spent a week crawling through rat-infested tunnels with a bullet in my thigh.
Valverde’s mansion is even worse. Satellite images show twelve-foot walls, electric fencing, watchtowers on every corner, and something that looks like a private airstrip carved out of the jungle behind it.
But it’s not the fortress that bothers me. It’s the presence of Donna Margarita. Whatever’s happening in that house, it isn’t just a social call. It’s a summit, or a hostage exchange, or maybe a goddamn coronation.
I tap the screen. "We need full blueprints. And a daily schedule for everyone inside. Run their deliveries, power bills, even their damn catering requests. There’s a pattern somewhere."
Pierre is already on his phone, texting a contact in municipal records. "We’ll have plans in two hours. Maybe less."
The SUV hits a pothole, and my teeth click together. I picture Sophia on that cliff, ocean to her back, stone walls all around. Why the hell is she here? Why are Roberto and Donna Margarita here?
"Anything on why the hell they're here?" I ask Mario and Pierre.
Pierre looks up from his tablet. "Not confirmed yet. But if they’re walking into Valverde’s den with Donna Margarita in tow, it’s not a social call."
Mario's mouth pulls into a grim line. "Could be about the ports. Valverde’s got chokehold control over them. If La Famiglia wants to move anything in or out without going through him every time, it’s gonna cost blood or gold."
Pierre shakes his head. "Ports alone wouldn’t drag her here in person. Think bigger. Remember the LA mess? The Venezuelan gang that took out the accountant, the one that dragged Toni into the fire? They had ties back here. And Valverde’s name was whispered more than once."
I glance between them, not liking where this is going. "So you’re saying this has Edoardo’s fingerprints on it?"
"Not directly," Mario says, already swiping through his tablet. "But I think Roberto’s here cleaning up one of his messes for him."
Pierre frowns. "What mess?"
Mario turns the screen toward us. It’s a news article dated a few days back.
A headline screams about an unexplained incident off the coast of Puerto Cabello.
A cargo ship burned nearly to the waterline, and Venezuelan customs officials claimed the manifest was falsified.
There are rumors swirling about drugs, weapons, and something else no one will talk about on record.
"The ship was La Famiglia’s," Mario says. "Or at least, the shipment was. Edoardo moved it through Valverde’s waters without proper clearance. Storm hit, boat capsized, Coast Guard got involved, and suddenly half the load’s missing.
Word is, Valverde thinks La Famiglia tried to infringe on his territory. "
Pierre exhales slowly. "And instead of paying him off, Edoardo sends Roberto?"
"Yeah," Mario says, leaning back. "To make it right. Probably with a fat envelope, maybe a deal or two."
I turn to Pierre. "Set up in the hotel. We need direct eyes on the mansion, and backdoor access to their comms. Every email, every phone call, every security feed. I want to know if anyone in that house so much as sneezes."
Leo says, "We should get weapons locally. I don’t like the idea of running with nothing but handguns if things go bump in the night."
"I know a guy," Mario offers. "He’s ex-French Foreign Legion, runs a surplus store out of his garage. He’ll have what you want."
I nod, then glance at the street outside.
We’re near the city center now, and traffic is thick but steady; cranes and half-finished towers pocket the skyline.
The weight of what’s coming settles on me.
There’s no backup, no cavalry, just us and a ticking clock.
For a moment, I consider calling Stephano, making something up to get him to send more men. It's an option I will use if I have to.
We hit the hotel—a monolith of smoked glass and fake marble—and check into a suite and several rooms under a false name.
The place stinks of bleach and air freshener, but at least the locks are solid, and there’s a balcony with a view of the whole city.
Pierre sweeps the suite for bugs, and Mario sets up a choke point at the entrance with furniture, a tripwire, and a holder for his shotgun.
Pierre gets right to work, while most of my men take this opportunity for showers and some shuteye in their rooms. It doesn't even take an hour before he’s hacked into the local police blotter and the cell towers near the mansion.
He’s got a map of security camera placements and a list of scheduled deliveries for the property.
Mario and I pull up chairs and start drawing out the approach on a whiteboard, marking out sniper nests, blind spots, and fallback points.
We work for six hours straight, stopping only for coffee and a box of greasy empanadas.
My mind cycles through every possible breach: night jump onto the roof, tunnel in from below, full frontal assault with explosives.
None of them works. Every scenario ends with at least one of us dead, maybe all three.
I don't like it. I'd sacrifice each one of us for Sophia in a heartbeat, but we won't be any good to her if we're dead.
As the sun sets, the city glows orange and pink, but all I can think about is the house where Sophia is locked up with a sociopath and the Queen of Knives.
I step outside onto the balcony, light a cigarette, and watch the lights flicker on in the distance.
The air tastes like ozone and gun oil. Smoke fills my throat.
I only light one when my nerves are raw—tonight they’re shredded.
Sophia’s face won’t leave me; Igor’s words still rattle like a bullet in my chest. Leonardo Zanello.
My father. Uncle Igor, with a vial and a verdict.
I haven’t had time to live with it, let alone use it.
The Don’s seat was never even a consideration.
I always knew I wasn’t meant to be somebody’s disposable shadow.
But being Edoardo’s half-brother? That’s a twist I didn’t audition for.
It fits Sophia, though—she’s born for coronets and ceremonies, not the filth of our streets.
I flip the butt off the balcony and watch the ember die. What a fucking shitshow.
When I return to the room, Pierre has news. "They’re bringing in a local chef tomorrow night. Catering for twelve."
"Twelve?" I frown. "Who are the other guests?"
He shrugs. "Hard to say. But I got chatter about a meeting, high-level. Cartel types. Maybe even some from the old families."
That’s when I realize what this is: a power grab.
Maybe Donna Margarita’s got a plan about whatever old vendetta she’s running.
I hate the idea of leaving Sophia in there for that long, but like I already realized, it won't do her any good if I'm dead. This party might be our best bet. I grab a marker and circle the western edge of the mansion. "If they’re doing a big dinner, the kitchens will be packed. That’s our best entry point.
Pierre, see if you can get the delivery manifests for the caterers.
Mario, get word to your guy about heavy gear. "
Mario nods. "I’ll get us machine guns. Maybe a couple surprises."
We spent the rest of the night refining the plan. I barely sleep, but when I do, I dream of Sophia’s face, pale and exhausted, eyes ringed with black from too many nights awake.
The next morning is quiet. Too quiet. Mario's on the phone in the adjoining room, and Pierre is tapping away at his laptop. I’m at the map again, running the plan in my head for the tenth time, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
The door doesn’t just open, it explodes inward—wood splinters, and the chain lock snaps like cheap wire. Three men in tactical black pour in, weapons up. One is killed instantly by the little booby trap Mario set up, but the other two start firing without hesitation.
Mario reaches for his gun, but the first round takes him in the neck. He’s down before the blood even hits the carpet. Pierre freezes and lifts his hands, but I'm already on the move. I’ve got my sidearm half-drawn before the butt of a rifle slams into my temple.
The room spins, and my knees hit the floor. Through the blur, I see one of the masked men crouch beside Mario's body. On his shoulder, he wears a lion’s head patch—Valverde’s men.
Hands grab me, and zip ties bite into my wrists. My vision tunnels, and words in Spanish ring out around me.
"?Por qué estás aquí?"—Why are you here?
I blink against the haze, and the copper taste of blood fills my mouth.
And then I see him.
Don Aurelio El León Valverde. The boss of bosses. Standing in my hotel suite like a man who owns both the ground beneath my feet and the air in my lungs.
"Who are you?" he asks in perfect, unhurried English. He steps closer, his eyes as sharp and heavy as a predator’s. "And why," he leans forward, voice low and lethal, "were you planning to storm my home?"