He shouldn't worry. I'm more crystal clear than I have ever been, because this is Sophia.
The map on the wall behind Leo's head blurs. In my mind, it’s replaced by a dozen scenarios. My favorite one is where I storm the runway, drag her off the plane, and put a bullet in Roberto’s skull before his feet hit the tarmac. Unfortunately, none are possible. Not until I know where the fuck they’ve gone.
Hours stretch endlessly as I pace the room. My men watch me warily; all of them are waiting on word from me as to where we're going. Wherever it is, I already know I'll be hours behind them, that much longer before I can save Sophia.
Finally, Pierre looks up from his laptop. "Venezuela."
Every warning alarm in my head turns on. Why is everything constantly going back to the Venezuelans? Stephano’s voice echoes in my mind, and his suspicion that Edoardo’s got deeper ties with them than anyone admits rings in my head. He ordered me to go down there this morning, to dig into it. I didn’t, because of Sophia.
There's some karmic irony to it that it seems that now I'm going to Venezuelabecauseof her. The way it looks to me, though, is that it's a hornet’s nest where no one walks near without getting stung.
I don’t believe in coincidences. Especially not when it’s the LA Venezuelan gang that killed the accountant, the same mess that had Toni one bullet away from a war. The knot in my gut tightens. This isn’t business as usual. This is a setup. And if Roberto’s in the middle of it, Sophia could very well become collateral.
"We’re going after them," I say finally, grabbing my jacket.
Leo blinks. "To Venezuela?"
"Yeah." I check my watch. "Five hours. That’s how long it takes to get from New York to Caracas on a private jet. Which means in five hours, we’ll be there too."
Pierre looks up. "You think they’ll still be on the ground when we land?"
"They will," I say, more certain than I should be. "Roberto’s the type who likes to make a show of his presence.He won’t just drop in and sneak out. He’ll want them to see him. Hear him."
That weakness will give me my window. I’ll have five hours in the air to make calls, line up contacts, and decide if I’m walking in through the front door or burning it down from the outside.
Either way, I’m not leaving Caracas without her.
An hour later, we're on one of my jets, and the countdown starts. Ten of my men are with me, strapped into leather seats as the engines roar us south. In the confined space, the air feels thick with anticipation. My men are restless, keyed up. No one says it out loud, but they all know we're about to enter a warzone on a playing field we have no business being on. Sticking with my earlier comparison of a hornet's nest, we're about to majorly piss them off and have them come after us.
Mario sits across from me with his tablet, Pierre beside him, both already pulling up files and making calls.
"Let’s go through it," I say. "Worst-case scenarios. Who could they be meeting and why?"
I might have the Zanello conference room bugged, but I don’t have his house or those of any of the other capos in my network. Their security is too high even for me. I could get in for a little while, but with their bug sweeps, I'd be out a few hours later.
Why the hell would Roberto go to Venezu—fucking—ela?
Mario looks up from his screen. "Could be to move product. Or… people."
I cut him a sharp look. Pierre shifts in his seat. "It’s not impossible. After Sicily got shut down, they lost a big pipeline. And with Kingsley’s bill gaining traction, it’s about to get a lot harder to grease ports on the East Coast."
He's talking about human trafficking. The idea of Sophia anywhere near that filth makes something cold and violent settle in my gut.
"They could be exploiting another route," Pierre adds, eyes still scanning his feed. "Venezuela’s perfect for it. Less oversight, plenty of corrupt officials willing to look the other way for the right price."
"Perfect for them," I say. "A fucking nightmare for us."
Because this isn’t just about getting Sophia out; for everyone else, it'll look like we intercepted a deal.
"Find me names," I tell them. "I don’t care if it’s the guy fueling their planes or the one signing off on port entries. I want the chain. I want to know who the big boss is."
Pierre nods, already typing, while Mario starts dialing.
Five hours. That’s all we have before we land. Five hours to figure out if we’re walking into a meeting… or an ambush.
Pierre scrolls, frowning. "They’ve got contacts all over Caracas. Old alliances with the Mirabal crew, but they’vebeen quiet for a while. If something’s brewing, it’s probably coming through a middleman."
"Or someone new," Leo adds. "Someone they haven’t worked with openly before."
