"I know."
He leaves to make the call.
I don't sit. I call Damiano.
He answers before the second ring finishes. "I was just about to call you, boss."
That alone tightens something in my chest.
"Talk," I say.
"There's noise," he tells me. "Not loud. Not yet. But it's old."
I stop moving. "Old how?"
"Like something that remembers," he picks his words carefully. "South side. A few guys saying Mexico's stirring. That a debt nobody talks about is waking up."
A familiar cold settles under my skin. "What kind of debt?"
Another pause. Damiano chooses his words like they might detonate. "Blood. From long ago. Maybe your father."
I close my eyes for half a second. Not in surprise. In calculation. Mexico doesn't move on ghosts. Cartels move for profit. Territory. Opportunity. Not memory. Blood from long ago isn't a cartel problem. It's a lineage problem.
Vendettas don't need announcements. They don't need flags or press or noise. They just need time. And time is something my family has never lacked.
"Who's saying this?" I want to know.
"Nobody specific. Which is what makes it dangerous."
Nobody specific means it isn't rumor. It's circulation. Whispers that test the temperature before the knife comes out.
"Keep listening," I tell him. "Don't move."
"Yes, boss."
The line goes dead.
I stand alone in my office, the city humming outside as if nothing is wrong.
Venezuela is a problem.
But this?
This feels like the past deciding it's done waiting. And I've learned the hard way—when old ghosts stir, they never come alone.
Massimo's officesmells like him. Expensive, dangerous. Something dark and mysterious. I sit at his desk, keeping my spine straight, forcing my hands to steady, preparing to use his computer like it's a weapon I'm still learning how to hold.
He opened an incognito window for me before he left. He didn't say a word about it. Just stepped aside, tapped two keys, and walked out like privacy was something he granted, not something I had to ask for.
The chair is heavy, built for a man who doesn't fidget, who expects the world to adjust around him. I move the mouse, and the screen wakes instantly. No password prompt. No hesitation. Just access. For a moment, I just stare at it. At the quiet arrogance of it. At the assumption that no one here needs permission. Then, because I'm human, because I'm standing in the center of a man's world and pretending I'm immune to it, I let curiosity win. I know I shouldn't. But I try anyway. I click where his profile should be. Or I try to. The bandages make it harder than I expected. My fingers are clumsy inside the gauze, thick and uncooperative, at least on my left. The right is better. Not good. Just… usable. The cursor jerks across the screen in uneven jumps, mocking me. I exhale sharply.
"Of course," I mutter.
For a second, I consider giving up. But that's not my style. I glance around the desk until I find a small pair of scissors tuckedinto a drawer. I drag them closer, awkward with the bulk of my wrapped hands. I wedge one handle against the desk and force my fingers through the other. It's ridiculous how hard this is. But carefully, snip after snip at the tips of the bandages, I free my fingers. Just enough. The soft cotton loosens, exposing the pads. I flex them once. Better. Usable. I reposition my hand on the mouse; if I'm going to stand in this world, I'm not doing it helpless.
And there they are, user settings. Private directories. Anything that might say Massimo Manetti. The cursor spins once. Then stops. Access denied. Not dramatic. Not locked down with flashing warnings. Just… absent. Like the door was never there to begin with. His world doesn't exist on this machine. Not personally. Not digitally.
What's here is infrastructure. Calendars without context. Files stripped down to function and purpose. No photos. No emails that aren't operational. No trace of a man, only the shape of power. I feel a strange flicker of something. Not disappointment. Respect, maybe. Or the quiet understanding that this is a man who learned a long time ago that the safest place to keep himself is nowhere at all.
