And he's just made himself a problem. I study him for a long beat, committing his face to memory. DeSantis thinks this gives him leverage. Thinks he's forcing my hand. What he doesn't understand—what none of them do yet—is that I'm not choosing between options. I'm choosing the order of executions. If I allow this, they get their moment. Their illusion of relevance. Their belief that this was ever shared ground. If I don't, they'll move without me, and I'll still walk through their wreckage to retrieve what's mine.
Either way, the Valverdes die.
The only variable left is how many bodies stack up before Amauri is breathing free air. I straighten slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind them who they're dealing with. Because this isn't about whether I'll work with them. It's about whether they realize—soon enough—that they're only being tolerated.
Conti steps closer. Close enough that I can't ignore him.
"If this were just about money," he states evenly, "you'd have sent men." A flicker crosses my control. "If it were about politics, you'd have sent lawyers." His voice lowers. "You came because the people taken mean something to you."
My jaw ticks. "Who told you that?"
"We have our sources."
Bullshit. I don't bother saying it. I'm still weighing Raffael's threat when Conti's wife chooses that moment to remind us she exists. She lifts a hand. Not tentatively. Not defensively. Bright. Cheerfully so. Entirely out of place.
"It was me. Hi." The timing is so wrong it almost works. I turn my attention to her fully this time. Really look. She's smiling like this is a dinner party she's hosting instead of a room full of armed men circling a cartel war. There's no fear in her posture. No nervous tells. She's not clinging to Conti, not posturing for approval. She's enjoying herself. That alone disqualifies her from being a decoration. I stare at her, measuring.
"What are you?" It's not an insult. It's an honest question.
She grins wider. "Complicated."
Sasha mutters from the doorway, unimpressed, "Psychotic."
"Jealous," she shoots back without even looking at him.
I almost smile. Almost. For a brief second, the tension fractures into something surreal. Like I've walked into the wrongplay, missed a door, and ended up in a dark comedy instead of a bloodbath. But then I remember and turn deadly serious.
"This is just a courtesy visit because of the family ties, but make no mistake, if you won't don't leave within the hour, I will have you removed." No theatrics. No raised voice. Just a simple statement of fact.
I won't tolerate interference in my operation. I don't know them. I don't trust them. And I don't allow unknown variables near my blood. That should be the end of it. It would be, with anyone else. But his wife doesn't argue. She doesn't challenge me. Doesn't bristle. Doesn't defend. She shifts. Barely perceptible. A shift in posture. A recalibration of the room itself. She smiles—not brightly now, but knowingly—and tilts her head as if she's considering me, not the threat I just issued. There's no fear in her gaze. Just interest. That alone is disconcerting.
"Alright," her voice is still cheerful, as if we're discussing seating arrangements instead of forced removal, "why don't we all take a deep breath, drink a vodka, and talk like adults and not like testosterone-fueled macho mafia bosses? Let's find out if we have any common ground here first, and if we don't…" she trails off, shrugs, "then we can start making threats."
The words are flippant. The timing is not. She's not negotiating terms. She's buying time. And the room responds. I feel it before I see it. Raffael doesn't interrupt. Conti doesn't assert himself. Even the Russian by the door eases by a fraction, like the pressure dropped a degree. I don't move. But I notice. This woman isn't just surviving proximity to power. She's managing it. Steering momentum sideways instead of blocking it. Creating space where there shouldn't be any. That's rare. And extremely dangerous.
Who the hell are you?
The room goes quiet. Too quiet. Raffael breaks it first.
"Before we start," he asserts, lifting a hand, "I want to make one thing clear."
He pauses. Smiles faintly. "Well… two things."
Everyone looks at him.
"First: I'm not drinking vodka." He points at her without looking. "I hate that stuff."
She gasps like he's insulted her ancestors.
"Second," he continues, eyes cutting back to me, "Aurelio is mine to kill."
My shoulders roll back slowly, muscle memory kicking in. The room tightens again.
"You can have him, DeSantis," I lie evenly, not intending to give up on my revenge at all. "I don't give a shit who fucks Aurelio's corpse so long as he dies screaming. I'm here for someone else."
Silence follows. Long enough that I consider whether I've misjudged this pause, whether this is where things fracture instead of align. But then Conti heads for the bar and starts pouring. Civilization, apparently, still exists. I watch him work with mild contempt and reluctant curiosity. Top-shelf vodka for his wife. Blue Label for Raffael and himself. An expensive bourbon for me. He hands it over.
I take it without thanks and swallow half of it down like water. The burn does nothing to settle me. But it does buy me a moment. And in that moment, I decide to level with them. At least for now. "Valverde took my son."
