"Keep talking," Raf says, "I might."
We keep moving.
The inner courtyard opens before us, moonlit, vast, lined with tall arches and broken fountains. A perfect kill zone. And waiting at the far side, stepping into the moonlight with a rifle slung over his shoulder, smirking like a man standing in his living room, is Silvestre.
Gunshots, yelling, and screaming can be heard in the back, our soldiers hashing it out with what's left of Silvestre's crew. He spreads his arms, mock-grand. "Welcome, friends."
Stephano stiffens. Massimo snarls low in his throat. Raf’s eyes go flat. Silvestre’s gaze slides to me. He stands under the moonlight with his rifle lazily pointed our way, likethis is a negotiation instead of an execution waiting to happen.
Before Stephano or Raf can speak, Massimo pushes past all of us, fury radiating off him in waves.
"Where is my son?" he demands.
Silvestre lifts his gun; the barrel holds steady as it settles against Massimo’s chest. His men tighten around him, metal whispering from holsters, safeties clicking off. The night compresses, breath held by too many killers in too small a space.
"I have no beef with you, Manetti." Silvestre narrows his eyes.
Massimo’s smile is gone. Whatever calculation he walked in with burned off the second Silvestre spoke.
"You have my son," Massimo snaps.
Silvestre blinks. Not the fake kind. Real confusion creases his brow, the momentary slack of a man blindsided by a language he didn’t know he spoke. "Your… what?"
Massimo steps forward, uncaring that the muzzle presses harder into his chest. His jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding. "Senator Kingsley’s grandson," he spits. "And his son-in-law."
The air shifts. I watch the truth land in Silvestre’s eyes in stages: confusion, then recognition, then something dangerously close to horror.
"Massimo," Silvestre pronounces carefully, each word laid like a brick meant to reinforce a collapsing wall. "I swear to you, I had no idea."
Gunfire rattles somewhere deeper in the compound: short, sharp bursts. A reminder that time is bleeding out around us.
Massimo waits until the echo fades. Then he laughs. Once. Low. Empty. "Why the fuck would that matter to me?" he growls.
The movement is sudden. Massimo draws, fast and violent, the barrel of his gun slamming against Silvestre’s forehead hard enough to snap his head back an inch. No hesitation. No warning. Just raw intent.
"You took my son," Massimo snarls. "That’s the only part of this story that counts."
Stephano moves at the same time.
"Don’t," he snarls, stepping in, his gun coming up, pressed tight to the side of Massimo’s head. "He’s mine."
Oh shit. Here we go.I knew the truce was too good to be true. I just thought it would last longer than five minutes. My weapon comes up, sights locking on Massimo’s chest. Raf mirrors me instantly, his gun trained, expression carved from stone. Across the room, Massimo’s men react on instinct—Gabe, one of his capos, first, then the others—barrels swinging our way in a deadly, synchronized arc. The air goes razor-thin. One twitch. Onebreath too loud. And this area becomes a slaughter ground.
Silvestre stands frozen between guns and gods, sweat beading at his temple where Massimo’s barrel kisses skin. "Everyone," he starts, voice tight. "Everyone?—"
"Shut up," Massimo snaps, never taking his eyes off him. "You don’t get to talk your way out of this."
Stephano's finger tightens, a tremor of rage he barely reins in. "You pull that trigger," he says coldly, "and you die with him."
Massimo doesn’t flinch. "Then we all bleed."
For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Too many men. Too many grudges. Too much blood already promised. I glance sideways at Stephano, just enough to catch the storm burning behind his eyes. He wants Silvestre dead. Wants it badly. I can feel the restraint vibrating through him like a live wire.
This isn’t an alliance anymore. This is a powder keg. One bad decision away from war. Silvestre feels it too. I see it in the way his eyes flick, cataloging barrels, distances, exits. He’s a survivor first. A kingpin second.
"It wasn’t my idea," he blurts in a cracking voice that is just enough to be convincing. "Someone hired us."
More gunfire rings out in the distance.
