"Name," I snap. "Give me a name."
Pierre hesitates, then, "Teo, Teodoro Salazar."
I lean back. Stephano mentioned him, too.
"Find out who the big boss is," I order. "Not just Teo. I want everything: family, operations, how deep their reach goes in Venezuela, and who they answer to."
Leo’s fingers are already moving. "On it."
I glance at the dark, endless stretch of sky ahead of us. A little more than four hours now. By the time we land, I’ll know exactly who I’m going to crush to get her back.
We board the plane,and I’m already bracing for the long, silent hours ahead when I spot her. Margarita. I shudder. For some, she's just Roberto's grandma, but for anybody else who has looked behind the curtain, she is the devil incarnate, running the Giordano family from behind the scenes. First through Giovanni and now, it seems, through Roberto.
The last time I saw her, she interrupted Roberto in reenacting our wedding night with me. Only this time, he had invited his guards, Pacco and Lennard, to join. Margarita was furious, going on about Roberto disrespecting me in front of his men, and for a fleeting moment, I thought she was the salvation I had been praying for. Only she wasn't interested in me at all. It was mypositionthat she was worried about. How it wouldlookif word got out. Roberto hitting and raping me was fine, as long as it happened behind closed doors without any witnesses. Istill have scars from the whipping of Roberto's belt after she left, letting his fury out on me. But thankfully, he never invited, or even threatened to invite, his guards back to join us again.
She’s seated toward the front, elegant as ever, a silk scarf knotted neatly at her throat, her black hair swept back into a chignon that looks like it took a team to perfect. A glass of champagne rests in her hand like it belongs there.
Roberto stops short in the aisle, clearly not expecting her either. "Grandma?—"
"I told you not to call me that," Margarita cuts in, her voice is sharp enough to slice through the hum of the engines.
He corrects himself immediately, but it’s too late. We all know it wasn’t a slip of the tongue. "Donna Margarita," he amends smoothly, "what can I do for you?"
Margarita steps into the aisle, right in front of him. Despite how much shorter she is, there’s something about the way she moves that makes her seem taller than him. "I got rid of your daddy," she says, her voice dropping to something cold and intimate, "I can get rid of you too, pup."
I freeze mid-step. I know I’m not supposed to hear this. Every instinct screams at me to keep moving, but my feet are rooted to the carpet. Roberto doesn’t flinch. Instead, he sidesteps her and strolls to the minibar, pouring himself a drink like she just paid him a compliment. "Well, let’s see…" he says, smugness curling at the edges of his mouth. "Since you got rid of dear old dad—which, by the way, was a stroke of genius, making Enrico do the dirty work—you don’t have many options left to fill the throne you want."
Throne?The word lands heavily in my chest.
She laughs, low and amused, and reaches out to ruffle his hair in a gesture so mocking it makes my skin prickle. "Dear boy," she says with saccharine sweetness, "you don’t know athingabout my options."
It's Roberto's turn to laugh. "If you're counting on dear old Isabella to produce an heir with Edoardo, you have severely miscalculated how far I will go to stop that."
Margarita cocks her head. Sweat runs down the back of my neck. A while ago, I overheard a fight between Margarita and Giovanni, during which they alluded to Isabella—Margarita's daughter, who is now married to Don Edoardo—being the bastard daughter of someone namedDon Silvestre. If that information ever saw the light of day, it could topple the entire La Famiglia. Now Margarita laughs, loud and ugly in Roberto's face, "You little shit, you think you have something on me? Me?" She slaps him, and I wince when I see his stony expression. "You’d better watch what you're saying, because if you intend to use this against me…" The threat hangs loud and clear, because Isabella's illegitimacy could get us all killed. "You need to step up your game if you want to contend with me, you little runt."
Silence follows. Long and drawn out, and once again, I contemplate leaving. Better now before they remember me. But my heart is pounding inside my chest, and my feet stay rooted to the ground. They stare at each other like two warring generals. Neither willing to give in. I've never seen Roberto stand up to her like this. Being a capo now must have gone to his head.
Margarita laughs again. "If you think that Edoardo has your back just because you've been licking his boots, you're sorely mistaken. I own that bastard."
Roberto looks like he's weighing her words.
She continues, "You control nothing. Not yet. Not until I say so. This empire didn’t build itself. I did—piece by piece. I won’t let you burn it down for your pride. Remember who you're dealing with. I always have another ace up my sleeve."
Roberto stills, worry creases his expression, and his eyes narrow into sharp, dangerous slits. "Who?"
Margarita only smiles, a glint of mischief—or malice—curls at the edges of her mouth. She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "A lady has to have her secrets now, doesn’t she?"
He is visibly startled, but he catches himself. "You have someone else to step up? Is that why I barely escaped with my life after you sicced Enrico on Father? Did you want me dead, too?"
Margarita tips her head back and tsks. It’s not a warm sound, not maternal at all; it sounds more like the satisfied purr of a predator watching its prey stumble into the trap. Like her favorite pet performed well in the arena, and now she’s deciding whether to feed it… or starve it. "Let’s call it a test."
The air between them is thick with something I can’t name, but I know one thing for sure: whatever Roberto and I are walking into in Caracas, she’s at the center of it.
While Margarita and Roberto stare at each other, I slide by her, mumbling an excuse and picking one of the leather chairs, as far away from the two of them as possible. Our guards begin to file in, carrying bags, and force Roberto and Margarita toward the back of the private jet, bringing them closer to me.
I pick up my phone, wanting to see if I can glean anything about Marcello’s condition, but I can’t help but overhear the two of them talking. Their evil planning is raising all the hairs on my arms and neck.
"…so let me get this straight," Roberto says, his tone is sharp but threaded with confusion. "You incited a little war between the Venezuelans and La Famiglia after Leonardo died." He considers her carefully, "I just don’t get why?"
