My men stand behind me, silent. Good. Anyone dumb enough to comment on the state of the elevator—or to speculate on what happened inside it—won't get a warning. They can feel it rolling off me. This is not lust. This is the fallout of something that shouldn't have happened.
But it did.
And now there's no pretending it didn't matter.
Her mouth. Her hands. The way she met me without flinching, without apology, like ten years hadn't tried to grind usdown into strangers. It wasn't just sex. It was recognition. It was coming home to a place I didn't know existed.
That's what scares me. Because while my body is still humming with it, my mind keeps snapping back to her words.
Bello.
The name turns acidic in my mouth.
I trusted that motherfucker. Trusted him with something more important than territory. More important than money, blood, or loyalty tests. I trusted him withher. With the truth. With the thin thread that tied my past to my future.
With my son.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in my gut. If he lied—if he decided what Jenna deserved to know, what I deserved to lose—then this wasn't a mistake. It was a decision. One that cost me ten years. One that shaped a child's entire life.
The elevator chimes. I straighten, my shoulders lock into place as the doors open. The casino explodes into light, sound, and motion. People stare. Of course they do. Blood on my shirt. Gun in plain sight. My face, still carved raw from whatever I left upstairs. Let them stare. This is my casino. My floor. My world.
I walk through it like I own gravity. Dealers stiffen. Security snaps alert. Conversations die as I pass. I pull my phone out, dial Enzo without breaking stride. He answers fast. "You're on your way."
"Yes."
A pause. He hears it. "What's up?"
"Make sure Bello is at the meeting."
This time, the pause is on him. During our inner circle meetings, we don't usually bring our seconds. "He's here."
"Keep him there." I end the call and keep moving, boots eating up polished floor, my men fall in behind me like shadows. Whatever just happened between Jenna and me will have towait. Whatever truth is clawing its way to the surface will be dealt with.
Because if Bello thought he could touch what was mine—rewrite my life, my family, my son—then this isn't just betrayal. Whatever happens next won't be loud. It won't be rushed. It won't be merciful. He didn't start a war. He just forfeited his life.
The SUVs are already waiting in the valet lane. Their engines are idling, dark glass reflecting the neon lights, money, and fear like they always do. Same formation. Same drivers. Same discipline. The meeting is at the Monarch tonight, Enzo's casino. We rotate locations for a reason. Patterns get men killed. And right now, we can't afford even the illusion of predictability.
I slide into the back seat, and the door shuts with a soft, final click. My phone vibrates once in my hand with an incoming text.
Oksana.
Unfortunately, Aurelio found a very quick end. Silvestre is still talking.
With all theother truths I'm finding out, Aurelio and Silvestre are so far on the back burner that I'd nearly forgotten about them.
I text back.
Me:
Make it count.
She sends a thumbs-up.I put the phone back in my jacket pocket. Aurelio and Silvestre. They dared take my blood and now pay with theirs for it. Deep down, I should owe them a debt ofgratitude; if it wasn't for them, I still wouldn't know about Amauri. That notion is short-lived, however. I don't owe anyone. Least of all the Valverdes. And with the Venezuelans out of the picture, I can turn my full focus on Joaquín and Mexico. The fucker is trying to test my borders, probing my city to see where the seams might split. That will be handled. But first, Bello.
The car barely has time to settle into traffic before we're pulling up again. Short ride. I don't waste it thinking about logistics. Those are already locked in place.
The SUVs stop. Doors open. I'm already moving. Enzo's casino parts the same way mine did. Heads turn. Voices drop. People step aside without being told. Whispering follows me like exhaust. I don't look at any of them. I don't need to. I cross the floor, boots steady on polished marble. Someone says my name. Someone else nods. A cocktail waitress catches my eye and offers a shy smile, hopeful, nervous.
I don't slow. I don't acknowledge it. None of it matters.
