For now, the air is thick with recalculation. Raffael's surprise has already cooled into interest. The Russian's hand hovers near his weapon, unsure. The woman's gaze lingers, measuring.
They didn't expect me.
That plays in my favor. Because that means whatever they're planning, I just walked into the middle of it. No one here yet knows whose blood will actually flow this night.
Stephano Conti is the next person I clock. Relaxed posture. Watchful eyes. The kind of man who doesn't look dangerous because he doesn't need to advertise it. He stands dead center, like he owns the place. That alone irritates me.
"What the fuck," I snap before the door even closes, the words leaving my mouth sharp and unfiltered, "are you doing in this dump?"
Classic Vegas diplomacy. I don't soften it. There's no point. I scan the room automatically. Raffael's hand hovers near his holster, good instincts. Sasha's positioning is tight. The woman still looks like she's on vacation, which makes her the most dangerous person here by default. My gaze catches on her again.
"Who's she?" I demand.
Stephano answers without missing a beat. "My wife. Mrs. Conti."
She smiles. Sweet. Tooth-rotting. Fake. "Pleasure to meet you."
She's lying. Stephano getting married is news to me. I didn't expect an invite, but I do try to keep up with the other families' affairs. "You got married?"
"Yes," Conti's voice is clipped, proprietary. The new Mrs. Conti means something to him. "Try to keep up."
"And you brought your wife," I huff, "to Caracas."
"She insisted."
"She always insists," she corrects lightly.
I stare at her longer than necessary. Something about her doesn't sit right. Not just confidence, precision. Like she's cataloging everything while pretending not to care. I don't have time for puzzles.
Raffael steps forward. "What are you doing here, Manetti?"
I round on him immediately. "What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here? All of you? In my war zone?"
The words are out before I can stop them. My war zone. Interesting, the way it sounds out loud.
Raffael tilts his head. "We have business with Valverde."
Valverde is mine, and they better understand that right fucking now. "No. You don't."
Mrs. Conti raises a brow. "We don't?"
I don't know what business they think they have here, and I don't care. Whatever this is, it's noise. Secondary. The kind of amateur theatrics men mistake for power when they're playing at war instead of waging it. This isn't their stage. I don't have the time, patience, or inclination to let a second-rate, imported spectacle interfere with what I came here to do.
I point at her. Then Conti. Then DeSantis. "You. And you. And definitely you. All three of you need to get the fuck out of Caracas before you turn a controlled situation into a fucking crater."
"Controlled?" Conti echoes, incredulous. "Don't tell me you're in bed with the Venezuelans."
I step into his space deliberately, close enough that he can smell the tension on me.
"No," I growl calmly. "I'm containing them. There's a difference."
I hear the truth in my own words. Containment isn't submission. It isn't partnership. It's pressure applied so precisely that the target doesn't realize it's already trapped. You let the poison move. You let the money flow. You watch whotouches it, who skims, who panics when the tap tightens by a fraction.
That's how you learn where the rot is.
He scoffs. "Funny way of doing it, considering your casinos are laundering their money."
My mouth curls, not a smile. Of course, he knows. Because men like Stephano Conti don't make accusations unless they're certain. Because laundering leaves fingerprints, no matter how clean you think you are. And because if you run drugs long enough, you learn to recognize the difference between money that moves through you and money that belongs to you.
