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 dragherhere 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 anunexplained incidentoff 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 halfthe 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 mychest. Leonardo Zanello. My father.UncleIgor, 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.
