"Now that you've eliminated the messenger, we'll have to deliver the message to Uncle ourselves," Santino said, brow furrowed.
He tapped ash from his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark. "When did you last visit your father?"
"It's overdue," I sighed, the *snick* of my pistol sliding into its shoulder holster unnaturally loud in the tense silence. "Need to discuss securing the trafficking routes.
The man's blind of my hatred for him—he's been dumping many of his responsibilities on me lately. Still hasn't realized *we're* the ones undermining him."
"Chipping at his wealth, power, and connections—one hit at a time."
Santino flashed a full-toothed grin, the gold cap on his molar catching the streetlamp's glare as he exhaled smoke, as if recalling the millions we'd diverted and alliances we'd sabotaged.
"But cut him slack. He rules an empire. His offshore wealth and shadow alliances are probably tenfold our estimates."
"You overestimate him," I scoffed, slamming the car door as Santino slid in,
leather seats groaning under his weight. "Just a pride-blinded old man. Never deserved his rank, bullied his way up with bloodstained knuckles."
"I heard what he did to Savoy's woman recently. Truly depraved."
I snapped my gaze to Santino. Targeting rival family women violated our codes—a surefire way to ignite blood feuds. Marco had avoided that line for years. If he'd crossed it now… "Where'd you hear that?"
"Matteo." Santino cracked his knuckles. "Wouldn't share details, but her kidnapping story's too gory for this car ride. Save it after the meeting."
"That son of a—" I bit back *whore* before Santino could smirk and provoke me. He never quits cruelty. What'd he want? Her screams on tape?"
"Power play? Humiliate Sylvio: *'I own your woman.'*"
"Then why didn't Sylvio mention it during negotiations? Matteo's sources solid? She alive?"
"Matteo's never wrong—ears everywhere. And maybe Sylvio doesn't give a damn. Not everyone cherishes their woman like *you* do." Santino's eyes gleamed, leaning on his arm towards me. "Been with the blonde tonight?"
I kept my eyes on the dark road, shifting gears.
"You smell like a woman. Strong perfume. Careful Marco doesn't catch wind—you know he'd set his sight on anything you treasure."
"I'd gouge his eyes from their sockets if he tries." My icy tone killed further discussion.
Melissa was off-limits. What we shared concerned *no one*—not even Santino, though we'd been like brothers since childhood. He, Matteo, and Sybilla my sister were my only true family.
*Sybilla.* How *did* our heartless bastard father adopt her? He'd slaughtered her parents when she was five. When her turn came, she hadn't cried—just stared him down with defiant blue eyes.
He saw something in that fearlessness and spared her. The only person he never abused (aside from murdering her real parents). *"You'll be great,"* he'd told her. *"I see it in you."*
He wasn't wrong. Sybilla now ruled Las Vegas with an iron fist, crushing rival factions. I held New York. Matteo commanded Philly; Santino, Chicago. We clashed sometimes, but agreed on one truth: the syndicate's old guard had to fall.
We arrived at my father's compound. Even though I'd come here countless times to manage his businesses, a sickening wave crashed over me the moment its iron gates loomed into view.
The air itself tasted of rust and decay—*the scent of blood*. Not just the strangers' blood I'd spilled during my "training," but *my own*, seeping from wounds he'd called lessons.
The memories surged: Father forcing me to torture men in the damp cellar, whispering, *"They abuse children, Christian. Show no mercy."* Only later would he smirk and reveal they were dockworkers or schoolteachers.
*"See, son? No difference between innocent or guilty. Monsters or saints. The line lives only in your mind… and you crossed it tonight. The only line that matters is family. Grow its power. Feed its respect."*
Lies. Rotting lies. If family mattered, he wouldn't have shattered my mother's skull on a rain-lashed road. I wouldn't still feel the ridge of whip scars on my back for screaming her name in my sleep.
A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the night, a blonde woman fighting as one of my father's thugs dragged her toward a black van, hand clamped over her mouth.
Her eyes, wide and terrified, locked onto mine. I lunged from the car, but Santino shoved me against the door, his palm grinding into my chest. "Are you fucking insane? We're in the viper's nest. Every guard here's itching to put a bullet in anyone they deem a 'threat.' *Contain it.*"
"Fucking bastard! Coward! *Dog!*" I spat toward the mansion's shadowed windows. "Human trafficking now? Is *that* why he fucking wanted the routes extra secured?"
Santino gripped my shoulder, fingers digging like claws. "Calm. Down." His voice was stern and serious. "We've seen worse. Don't torch years of planning over one victim. You'd cost hundreds of people their lives that way, including our very own."
He was right. She was far from being his only victim, and I'd witnessed Marco flay men alive for glancing at him wrong. But that woman's hair, descending in an explosion of blonde curls, golden like Melissa, it turned my blood to fire.
Still… attacking here was suicide. *Sabotage,* I reminded myself. Let the sickness of aiding him fester; it gave me access to gut his schemes from within. I'll track and intercept their route before they could ship her away to wherever the fuck he wanted her delivered.
"Let's go inside," I sighed, rubbing my sternum as if scrubbing filth from bone. I fastened the last button of my suit and strode toward the entrance.
The butler, same old man who'd watched me bleed as a boy, bowed so low his spine creaked. "Sir Christian." He intoned. "You're expected in the meeting room. Don Marco and the La Muerta Blanca cartel envoys await."
I didn't break stride. "There are other secret guests who will be joining us. Unannounced. Send them in when they arrive."
His milky eyes flickered. "Other guests? During the—?" He swallowed the question, recognizing the ice in my stare. "…Very well, sir."
I strode into the meeting room, Santino a shadow at my back. Three men from **La Muerta Blanca** sat rigidly, their necks ringed by crimson rosary tattoos blooming into thorny roses—a grotesque brand promising *"We come after your bloodline if you cross us."*
They snapped to their feet as we entered, heads bowed in silent respect. To the left, Marco hunched behind his obsidian desk, fingers bone-white on the skull-headed cane.
His gaze was a physical weight, his dark eyes dissecting every movement I made. I took my seat at the table's head, ignoring him, gesturing for the cartel men to sit.
The leader of La Muerta Blanca rasped: "Marasco Junior. Twenty minutes late. Is this how you honor guests?"
"You should kneel that I received you at all," I snarled, the air crackling with the heat of my glare. "After your last… *miscalculation*."
His shaved-headed lieutenant stroked his goatee, sweat beading above his tattooed brows. "Wasn't our fault, *esse*. Cops had tails on us for months, someone has been informing on us."
His companion leaned forward, knuckles scarred and ink-stained. "Times changed since your papa's day. Police got choppers, trackers, infrared. We need twenty mil to secure the roads. *Safety costs*."
A cold laugh tore from my throat. "Cut the crap. You're not as indispensable as you believe." I steepled my hands, the gesture slicing the tension. "Three million added to your wasted seven. Ten total. More than your grunt-work deserves."
**"*¡Madre de Dios!*"** The lieutenant slammed a palm on the table. **"Ten won't cover *half*! Not with the extra… *shipments*… your father started."**
My eyes sliced to Marco. He hadn't moved, but his knuckles bleached whiter on the cane. *Ah.* This was his shadow-play—trafficking he'd hidden even from me. Distrust? No. That reptilian stare was fixed on *them*. He probably thought it was too soon to loop me into his filth, same old trick, only reveal his hand when I'm already involved and too deep to protest.
The Muerta Blanca's leader, whose scalp was a canvas of coiled white tribal ink and his forehead etched like an Aztec altar, sneered. "Deal or not, *cabrón*? We ain't decor around here, we've got work to do."
"Let's hear alternatives," I said softly.
The doors groaned open. Three men entered, cloaked in electric-blue suits—**Veneno Azul**. The air curdled with the scent of ozone and poison. Muerta Blanca's men vaulted up, chairs screeching. **"*¡Pinche trampa!* You setting us up?!"**
**"If I wanted you dead,"** I murmured, **"you'd be feeding my hounds. This is merely healthy market competition*."
The blue-clad cartel fanned out opposite Muerta Blanca. Xolotl, their leader, smiled—a needle-thin gash beneath dead eyes. Tension thickened, syrupy and suffocating.
**"As discussed,"** I continued, **"Muerta Blanca claims they'll secure Mexico-to-NYC routes for ten million. Can you undercut that?"**
Xolotl flicked a dart between his fingers—bone needle glistening with batrachotoxin. "We do it for *seven*. We *own* the checkpoints. *Our* bribes are in the pockets of most police officers, they won't be able to move states if we decide otherwise."
The Muerta Blanca leader trembled, rage souring his breath. **"You thieving *puta*—"**
**"Five million!"** his youngest enforcer blurted, desperate.
I raised a hand. "If Veneno Azul controls the veins of the operation… why pay for dead men?"
Xolotl's smile widened. "They are dead men walking. Place white roses on their coffins, *jefe*. Time to bury relics."
The young enforcer lunged— **"*¡Chinga tu—!*"**
Xolotl's head snapped forward. A wet *thwick* cut the air, a dart flew from underneath his blue tongue. The dart buried itself in the boy's neck.
**Silence.**
Veins bulged, blackening like roots under skin. The young man's eyes rolled back, mouth foaming as he crumpled. Convulsions wracked his body as he collapsed on the Persian rug. Muerta Blanca dragged their seizing comrade out, heads low, defeat sour in their sweat.
Veneno Azul's deal was sealed with a handshake—cold, bloodless. As they left, the stench of the venom they've released hung heavy.
Behind his desk, Marco hadn't moved. But fury radiated from him—a silent scream. His cane shivered in his grip. I'd just butchered his oldest alliance. Now? He'd have to confess what rot he'd been smuggling.