Massimo’s gun presses harder into his forehead. "Who?"
Silvestre swallows. "Let me live," he says quickly. "And I’ll tell you."
Stephano laughs. Not loud. Not amused. The sound of a man who has already decided how this ends. "Nice try," he says. "We’ll make you talk."
Silvestre’s gaze darts to him, then to Raf, then to me. He sees the truth written on our faces: pain later. Answers first.
I step in before Massimo’s restraint snaps.
"Look," I say, calm and deadly and very aware that six fingers are tightening on triggers. "I get it. He took your son. If someone hired him—someone bigger, cleaner, smarter—you go afterthatman."
Massimo doesn’t look at me. He’s breathing hard now, chest rising like a bellows, fury caged, but barely.
"Let us have him," I continue. "And his pathetic son. I swear to you, he won’t find an easy end."
That gets his attention. Slowly, Massimo’s eyes shift to me. He assesses me. Not as a woman. Not as an ally. As a variable. A weapon. Something dangerous enough to be useful. His mind is working. I can almost hear the math.
"If I promise not to kill you," Massimo says, voice flat, eyes back on Silvestre, "you tell me who the fuck hired you."
Silvestre nods too fast. "Yes. Yes."
"Now."
Silvestre hesitates, and a sly gleam appears on his face. "Get me out of here first." Of course.
"Non-negotiable," Massimo tells him matter-of-factly. "You could be caught in the crossfire."
Silvestre thinks he’s clever. He thinks distance equals leverage. Every gun comes up another inch. I shift my stance without thinking, weight settling, breath slowing. Stephano does the same. Raf’s eyes go dark, predatory. We’re ready. Silvestre sees it.
The gamble sharpens.
"I want your word," he presses in a tight voice. "Not to kill me. And to get me out of here alive."
Massimo rolls his eyes like he’s tired of children. Then he nods once. Sharp. Final. "Yeah."
The word tastes like poison. Every instinct I have screams to put a bullet through Massimo's skullright now. One clean hit. End the variables. End the lies. I’ll regret this if I don’t. This is going to be ugly. And we all know it.
Silvestre straightens. Just a fraction, but enough. Enough to tell me he thinks he’s won.
"The people who hired me," his voice is gaining confidence with every syllable, "they’re Mexican cartel." He licks his lips. "They’re shielding someone. I don’t know who," he raises his hand to ward off any curses fromMassimo for not holding to his end of the bargain fully, finishing with, "but whoever it is, they’re positioning. Vegas. They want to take it."
The words hit like a bomb. Even if it is not the name Massimo wanted, I can see by the set of his jaw that this resonates with him. Looks like trouble is brewing in Vegas. Massimo stills. A hard lock slips into place behind his eyes. Vegas isn’t just territory. It’s blood, legacy, infrastructure. His city. His crown.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gun. Silvestre exhales like he’s just crawled out of a grave. Massimo turns his head and looks at Stephano.
"A deal is a deal," he says evenly. "He’s all yours."
Relief slips out of me in a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Stephano nods once. That’s all it takes. Guns lower, one by one. The room exhales with us.
Silvestre’s face drains of color. "No—no, you promised!" he wails, panic cracking through his voice. "You said?—"
Massimo steps forward and drives his fist into Silvestre’s gut. Hard. The sound is wet. Final. The kind of hit that empties lungs and dignity in one blow. Silvestre folds with a strangled sound, retching.
Massimo leans down; his tone is laced with malice. "I don’t make promises to child snatchers and blackmailers."
Then he straightens and snaps his fingers. "Enough. Let’s go get my son."
"Where are they?" Massimo demands.
