"Alright," he says. "We’ll start simple." He looks up at Silvestre. "What deal did you and the Russians make?"
Raffael’s questionhangs in the air like Silvestre. I watch his face instead of listening for the answer. Old men like him don’t panic the way younger ones do. Panic is messy. Obvious. What crosses Silvestre’s expression is something colder, a calculation running out of options. He doesn’t look at Aurelio. He doesn’t look at Raf.
He looks at me. That alone tells me this answer isn’t about Venezuela. It’s about New York.
"You don’t know what you’re asking," Silvestre says at last, voice steady enough to almost pass for dignity.
Raf hums. "That’s usually my favorite part."
Silvestre exhales through his nose. "The Russians came to us first."
Aurelio’s head snaps up. "You lying son ofa?—"
"Shut up," Silvestre barks, sharp enough to cut. "You want to live? Then learn when to keep your mouth closed."
Aurelio does not shut up. He never learned how to. "You told me that you contacted them. You wanted an alliance. You sold Aunt Marisol to the bastard when she was seventeen. Your own sister!"
Silvestre’s jaw tightens; his legs kick out toward his son. "There was an understanding. Years ago. Before your time." His gaze flicks to me again, assessing. Measuring. "Viktor Voronin wanted access. Ports. Routes. Caracas was useful. Margarita was… persuasive."
Aurelio laughs, hollow. "You sold us out for a woman."
Silvestre’s eyes flash. "I secured our future."
"By chaining us to ghosts," Aurelio snaps back. "To Russians who don’t forget and don’t forgive."
Silvestre ignores him. "Voronin promised protection. Influence. A seat at a table that would outlive us all."
"And what did you give him?" I ask quietly.
The room stills. Silvestre meets my gaze. "Blood."
Oksana inhales sharply beside me.
"A marriage," Aurelio cuts in. "A bridge that couldn’t be burned without consequences."
Silvestre curses, "Keep your mouth shut."
Aurelio’s chest is heaving. Sweat streaks his temples. He looks younger than he should. Smaller. A Don raised in a shadow that never belonged to him.
"Thereisa boy," Aurelio blurts.
The words hit the room like a dropped blade.
Silvestre’s head snaps toward him. "No."
Aurelio laughs again, high and hysterical now, a man finally bleeding out words he’s swallowed for decades. "Oh, fuck you, Papá. You don’t get to decide that anymore."
Raf’s smile sharpens. Oksana stills beside me, every instinct coiled tight. Even I understand what that means to the Russians. A boy with Voronin's blood is a danger to Grigori's position.
"A boy?" Raf prompts mildly.
Aurelio nods, eyes too bright. "Alexei." He looks at me, and something like vindication sparks in his eyes. "If you knew who?—"
Silvestre moves. It happens so fast that my body reacts before my mind does. He swings on the chains, legs snapping out, catching Aurelio from behind. One leg snakes around his throat. The other clamps his jaw.
"No," I bark.
There’s a sickening crack. Aurelio’s laugh cuts off mid-breath. His body goes slack; his weight is draggingSilvestre down on the chains. Raf swears viciously, stepping forward too late.
