He shifted slightly — wincing as the movement tugged at the wounds still healing under his bandages.
“It’s safer working for me than for any flag.”
His lips curved faintly — not humor, but recognition.
“After all... my sister and I once wore those colors ourselves.”
His eyes hardened. “We saw how that turned out.”
The statement carried weight.
It wasn’t just about loyalty. It was about betrayal.
About being used by systems that discarded soldiers once they became inconvenient.
He turned away from me and stepped toward the large white board dominating the far wall.
In his left hand — still wrapped in bandages where I’d shot him four days earlier — he held a black marker.
The injury hadn’t slowed him.
He had adapted around it.
Already, the board displayed a rough map of California’s underworld.
Five mafia families were represented by circles.
Two positioned on the left coast.
Two on the right.
And one dead center — mine.
Beneath it, written in bold black block letters, was a single name:
Vasquez
He tapped the center circle with the marker.
“Your father,” he began, voice steady and analytical, “has spent years convincing the other four families to stop fighting each other.”
His hand moved as he spoke — drawing lines between circles to represent alliances.
“Agreements. Strategic marriages. Controlled territory negotiations. Economic partnerships that reduce open conflict.”
He circled the central position again.
“He positioned himself as the unifier. The man with the vision to bring fractured power under one structure.”
His eyes flicked toward me.
“And now he’s pushing to be named head of the entire system.”
My jaw tightened.
I didn’t interrupt.
Ruslan capped the marker with a sharp click.
