I shift my gaze to Gabe. He shakes his head once. Clean. No hesitation.
"So Bello was otherwise solid," I say.
"Yes," Gabe confirms. "No leaks. No money out of place. Nothing else compromised."
That lands exactly where it should. Bello's betrayal wasn't rot. It waschoice. Still unforgivable, but better than more fallout. I turn to Alessio. He's already leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with something close to satisfaction. "Joaquín is hiding in Mexico, on the northern side. I have his exact location."
For the first time in days, something like alignment clicks into place. Fortuna, it seems, has finally decided to stop laughing at me.
Enzo clears his throat. "We caught five more rats. Hired to poison our coke. All of them folded. Same pipeline. Same handlers."
I nod once. "They won't be missed."
No one argues. The pieces are falling where they belong now. Threads tightening. Noise resolving into pattern. What started as chaos is turning back into something I understand. Something I can control. I look around the table, meeting each of my most trusted men's eyes in turn.
"This ends," I declare. "Now. Anyone who thinks they can bleed us quietly will learn otherwise. Anyone who thinks my house is open season will be corrected."
I glance once—just once—at the place where Bello died.
Then I turn back to my men. "Clean it up," I order.
"What do you want to do with Whitford?" Gabe asks, rising.
The room stills again. Whitford is unfinished business. Everyone here knows it.
"He stays where he is," I command. My voice is calm, measured. Worse than anger. "Alive." A flicker crosses Enzo'sface. Damiano's mouth tightens. Alessio doesn't react at all. "For now," I add. "What's his condition?"
"Demanding asshole," Gabe replies. "Comfortable enough to remember every choice he made. Not comfortable enough to forget who owns him."
Whitford is leverage. Not against Jenna. Against truth. Against timelines. Against the men who thought they could move my pieces without asking permission. I do have a few questions left for him. He talked once. He'll talk again. And when he does, it will be because he understands exactly how small he is.
Gabe's expression doesn't change. "And when you're done with him?"
I look at the table. At the men who have bled with me. At the empty space where Bello had stood ten minutes ago.
"When I'm done, Jenna will be a widow."
That satisfies them. I straighten my cuffs, already mentally moving past Whitford. He's a footnote. A delay. The real threats are still breathing—Mexico, Joaquín, the men who thought Las Vegas was soft because I was distracted.
Not anymore.
"We move south soon," I order. "Quietly. I want Joaquín alive long enough to understand what he started."
Alessio smiles, sharp and eager. "I'll handle it."
"I know you will."
I turn toward the door; the meeting is already over in my mind. "And someone make sure," I add without looking back, "that Jenna and my son are not disturbed tonight. No updates. No visitors. Nothing reaches them unless it comes through me."
"Yes, boss," comes the chorus.
I leave the room without another word. The blood has been paid.
The house is aligned. And now, now I go back to what matters.
Everything else can wait its turn.
I don't remember fallingasleep. One moment, I was sitting upright on the couch, every nerve still humming, listening to Amauri's breathing like it was a lifeline. The next, I wake up warm. Not on the couch. Not in the guest bedroom.
