"You took my son," I snarl. "That's the only part of this story that counts."
That's when the shitshow starts. Conti steps in, gun up, pressing hard against the side of my head. "Don't," he snarls. "He's mine."
Of course. Across the courtyard, weapons rise in reflex, Gabe first, then the rest of my men, barrels swinging toward DeSantis, Conti, Oksana. Their people mirror us instantly. The air goes razor-thin. One twitch. One breath too loud. And this place becomes a slaughterhouse. Silvestre stands frozen between gods and guns, sweat beading at his temple where my barrel kisses skin.
"Everyone—" he starts.
"Shut up," I snap. "You don't get to talk your way out of this."
Conti's finger tightens. I feel it in the pressure against my skull. "You pull that trigger," his voice is cold, "and you die with him."
I don't flinch. "Then we all bleed."
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Too many grudges. Too much blood already promised. I glance sideways just enough to catch the storm burning behind Conti's eyes. He wants Silvestre dead. Desperately. I recognize that kind of restraint; it hums like a live wire. This isn't an alliance anymore. It's a powder keg. Silvestre sees it too. His eyes flick, counting barrels, exits, distances. Survivor first. Kingpin second.
"It wasn't my idea," he blurts, his voice is cracking just enough to sound real. "Someone hired us."
Gunfire cracks again, closer now. I press the barrel harder into his forehead. "Who?"
He swallows. "Let me live," he bargains. "And I'll tell you."
Conti laughs. Not loud. Not amused. "Nice try. We'll make you talk."
Silvestre's gaze darts from Conti to DeSantis to Oksana. He sees the truth written plainly: pain later. Answers first.
She steps in then, calm, deadly. Like before. "Look. I get it. He took your son."
I don't look at her. My breathing is heavy now, my chest rising like a bellows, my fury barely caged.
"If someone hired him—someone bigger, cleaner, smarter—you go after that man," she continues. "Let us have him. And his pathetic son. I swear to you, he won't find an easy end."
Her words cut through the red. She's not asking for mercy. She's talking strategy. I don't lower the gun. But I listen. Because the only thing that matters more than how Silvestre will die is why Amauri was taken in the first place. And who ordered it. The math snaps into place almost immediately. Not trust. Not agreement. Delay.
Right now, if a shot is fired, nobody walks away. Too many guns. Too many men with reasons. Too many overlapping grudges pressed into too small a space. This courtyard turns into a tomb the second someone twitches.
That matters. I'm not afraid to die, but Amauri is still breathing somewhere beneath this estate, and I refuse to let my temper bury him with me. So I shift, barely perceptible. A fraction of a degree. Enough to change the equation without announcing it.
I let my eyes move and take Oksana in. Not as a woman. Not as an ally. As a variable. A weapon. Someone dangerous enough to matter. I can almost hear the numbers ticking through my head as I reassess the board. Less mess later beats total annihilation now. I look back at Silvestre.
"If I promise not to kill you," I order flatly, "you tell me who the fuck hired you."
His nod is immediate. Too fast. Desperate. "Yes. Yes."
"Now."
He hesitates, tries to bargain. "Get me out of here first," he pleads, a sly gleam slipping into his eyes. He thinks distance equals leverage. He thinks breathing buys him control.
"Non-negotiable," I stare coldly into his eyes. "You could be caught in the crossfire."
Every gun in the courtyard rises another inch. I feel it more than see it, the collective inhale, the tightening grips, the shift of weight. DeSantis is ready. Conti is ready. My men are already ahead of me. Silvestre sees it too. The gamble sharpens.
"I want your word," he presses, voice tight now. "Not to kill me. And to get me out of here alive."
I roll my eyes. This is worse than negotiating with a five-year-old. Then I nod once. Sharp. Final. Having no intentions of following through. "Yeah."
The word tastes like poison. Every instinct I have screams to put a bullet through his skull right now. End it. End the lies. End the variables. This is going to be ugly no matter what. But ugly later still beats dead now.
Silvestre straightens, just a fraction. Enough to tell me he thinks he's won. "The people who hired me," confidence creeps back into his voice with every syllable, "they're Mexican cartel."
