Aurelio’s nostrils flare. "Still giving orders. Even like that."
Silvestre’s voice cuts. "You’re my son."
Aurelio’s eyes flash. "No. I’m yourinsurance policy.I’m yourspare tire. I’m the thing you kept around so you never had to admit you were wrong."
Silvestre’s chin lifts. "You wanted to be Don! Now act like one."
Aurelio steps closer. "I tried. You never let me completely take over."
"Because you’re weak," Silvestre says, and it’s so casual, so final, like stating aweather report.
That one lands. Aurelio’s throat bobs. His eyes go glassy for half a second, then hard.
"Say it again," Aurelio whispers.
Silvestre doesn’t hesitate. "Weak."
Oof. There it is. The father’s favorite knife, used so often, the handle fits his palm. Aurelio’s hand trembles. Not from fear. From rage. From grief he refuses to name. From a lifetime of swallowing the same poison.
"And you think you’re strong?" Aurelio says, voice shaking now. "You’re hanging from a ceiling."
Silvestre smiles. Bloody. Proud. "And you’re still looking up at me."
Stephano gives a low chuckle. "Damn," he murmurs, almost admiring. "He really raised you."
I shift my weight, letting the heel of my boot scrape once on the concrete.
Both sets of Valverde eyes flick to me, instinctively. Predator recognizing huntress.
"Enough," I say, mildly.
Silvestre’s gaze lingers on me, calculating, the old fox. "Russian," he spits like it’s a slur.
"Careful," I tell him. "I’m in a charitable mood. Don’t waste it."
Aurelio’s laugh cracks again. "See?" he snaps at Silvestre. "This is what you did. You brought them here. You and your stupid honor and your stupid?—"
"Don’t," Silvestre says again, but now it’s not a warning. It’s a plea. Aurelio hears it. His expression twists. Like he hates himself for hearing it.
"You made us believe we were untouchable," Aurelio shakes his head. "That we were kings because you had deals with ghosts. But the ghosts are real, aren’t they? Moscow. New York. Voronin."
Silvestre goes very still.
Oh.
That landed where it was supposed to.
Raf’s head tilts, eyes sharpening. Stephano’s posture changes fractionally, but I feel it. Aurelio sees their reactions and realizes he just stepped on a live wire. His voice turns desperate, quickening. "It’s the Russians’ fault," he blurts, like he can throw blame like sand and blind everyone. "It started with them. With Voronin. With Marisol. With?—"
Silvestre’s voice becomes a whip. "Shut. The fuck. Up."
Aurelio jerks, startled by the force of it. Silvestre swings in his chains, face twisted, eyes blazing with something that looks like fear, and Silvestre Valverde does not do fear.
Raf’s smile returns, slow and cruel.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "This is going to be fun."
He steps forward, softening his voice into something almost gentle, almost fatherly, which is the most terrifying thing Raf can do.
