I read the news back then. I followed politics. I cared. Or at least, I thought I did. But somehow this slipped through. Or did I let it?
No, I shake my head. I wouldn't have. I might have taken Daddy's side, but no, this is not something that would have slipped by me. This was intentionally withheld from me. But why? The amount he paid her wasn't outrageous. Enough to disappear, not enough to scream guilt. And the story could have been made up. That's the poison of it. That's how men like my father survive. Plausible deniability.
But something in me recoils. Because God help me, I can see it being true. I can see his temper. The way his voice sharpens when things don't go his way. The coldness when disappointment sets in. The way women are always… secondary. Useful. Replaceable. The way he said he'd drag me, kicking and screaming, into a clinic if necessary.
I press my palm to my mouth, breathing through the nausea. If he did this—if he hurt her and then erased her with money— then everything I told myself about him being a good man was a lie I helped maintain.
I hate myself for thinking it. After all, he is my father. But enough is enough. That get out of jail free card has expired.
No matter how much I may want to deny the ugly truth, he told me himself the kind of man he is. His exact words were: We spin it. Senator's son-in-law and grandson kidnapped. Daughter barely escapes with her life. A home invasion. A martyr narrative. The public will eat this up.
Followed by: Manetti's bastard son.
And ending with: Don't you see? Up until now, Amauri was a ticking time bomb.
I stand up, shaking my head to clear it. I can't dwell on that right now; it's too much. What I can think about are Massimo's words, how the New York family has something on him. I might not want to, but I can see that, too. And the one thing stands out clearer than all the rest, sharp as glass: whatever loyalty I owed my father ends where my son begins.
Thankfully, my timer beeps. It's five 'til five. Time to go see what information Marianne has.
Tourist trapisthe first word that comes to mind. Not a cheap one, no. This is the upper ceiling of what the middle class can afford. The kind of place people save for. Splurge on. Brag about afterward. High-end enough to feel special, accessible enough to stay full year-round. I know this tier intimately. I make a fortune off it.
The lobby is a riot of shine and noise. Polished brass everywhere. Oversized chandeliers dripping light meant to overwhelm rather than illuminate. The floors are composite stone veined to suggest luxury. Convincing at a glance. A lie if you look twice.
Where my hotels use real marble—cold, heavy, cut clean—this place uses imitation. Already scratched if you know where to look. Scuffed along the edges where rolling suitcases have chewed through the illusion. Corners dulled, chips hastily filled and buffed smooth under aggressive lighting designed to hide wear. It almost works.
The people complete the picture. An international assortment drifts through the lobby, phones always out, skin sunburned instead of pale. Families instead of escorts. Couples in matching outfits, children tugging on hands, voices loud with excitement. They think they've arrived somewhere important. That's the trick. My properties don't try to impress. They don't have to. Real luxury doesn't announce itself. It doesn't beg tobe believed. It settles into the bones. It makes you feel small without ever telling you why.
This place does the opposite. Everything is overstated. Gaudy. Designed to convince the middle-class tourist that they've crossed a line into exclusivity. That they're brushing shoulders with wealth and power. It's an illusion. Which is why it matters.
Conti and DeSantis didn't choose this hotel because it was convenient. They chose it because it disappears into noise. No Valverde welcome. No armored convoy. No visible alliance. Just anonymity wrapped in gold paint. They didn't want to be hosted. They wanted to be overlooked. Everything about this place says one thing clearly: they didn't come to Caracas for comfort. They came for blood.
I move through the lobby without slowing, cataloging exits, sightlines, and reflections in mirrored columns. The illusion hums around me, loud and oblivious.
I reach the floor with Conti's and DeSantis' room. A guard answers my knock. He looks more Russian than Italian. Curious. Recognition flickers in his eyes, quick, instinctive. He doesn't know me personally, but he knows of me. Men like him always do. Before he can say anything, movement behind him catches my attention. Raffael DeSantis strides forward like he is already on his way out. He stops. Stares at me like he's just seen a ghost.
For a fraction of a second, I enjoy it.
"Massimo?" he says, disbelief threading the word.
"DeSantis," I reply evenly, like we're passing each other at a charity gala instead of colliding in a city soaked in cartel blood.
I step inside without waiting for permission. Two of my men follow. The others remain outside; it's a deliberate move. I don't want a war, but I'm willing to wage it. This isn't a show of force. It's a statement of confidence. If this turns violent, it won't be because I brought an army.
The Russian stiffens behind me. Uneasy now. He doesn't like surprises, and I'm very clearly one.
Raffael lifts a hand slightly, palm down. "Easy, Sasha," he says, almost amused. "I think he's friendly."
Friendly. I don't correct him. He gestures me further in, and I let him, eyes already moving, cataloging. It's exactly like the rest of the hotel. Designed to impress at first glance. Faux satin drapes catch the light just enough to look expensive from a distance. Gold-toned accents that are a shade too bright. Furniture with curves meant to suggest indulgence, not comfort.
Everything here is staged. Luxury as performance. There's no personal imprint. No art. No books. No signs anyone intends to stay longer than necessary.
My eyes flick to the woman on the sofa. At first glance, I categorize her the way I've categorized a hundred others over the years: decoration. Beautiful. Placed. The type of woman a powerful man keeps nearby because she looks good in the frame and knows when to stay quiet. The kind who orbits money and violence without ever touching either directly.
She's dressed for it, too. Effortless. Controlled. Nothing accidental. Raffael's, maybe. Or Conti's.
That assumption lasts exactly one second too long. Because she doesn't avert her gaze or try to flirt with me. She watches me openly, chin tipped just enough to be curious, not deferential. There's no hunger there. No calculation of what I might give her. No practiced softness. Instead, there's something sharp. Alert. A gleam of danger in her eyes that doesn't belong to women who exist to be entertained. That gives me pause.
I adjust the mental box I'd put her in, slide it aside entirely. She doesn't fit. Not quite. And I've learned the hard way that when something almost fits, it's usually the thing that cuts deepest. Interesting.
