CHAPTER FIVE

“IF I CAN’T BEND HEAVEN, I WILL RAISE HELL.”

DANTE.

The whiskey bottle is half empty now. I should stop drinking. Need to be sharp tonight at the Arena. Need to make a good impression, convince the old guard that I'm stable enough to lead. That I won't drag them all into war with the cartels or the Russians or whoever else I've pissed off over the years.

But I pour another glass anyway.

I think about Marco. My cousin. Haven't seen him since we were kids, really. He was always the golden child. Smart, political, knew how to play the game. Our fathers were brothers, but they raised us completely differently. Marco got grooming for leadership. I got drugs and abuse and eventually an attempted murder disguised as a business trip.

Wonder what he's like now. The reports say he's married, has a daughter. Living the respectable life. Probably looks down on me, the cousin who went feral in South America and came back covered in scars and blood.

Don't really care what he thinks, honestly. I just need his votes. Need his support in the succession. After that, we can go back to being strangers.

My phone buzzes again. Text this time. From kingston, one of my guys who's been doing reconnaissance here.

Arena is packed. All the major families represented. Salvatore is here too. Watch yourself.

Salvatore. The old Pakhan's brother. The bitter old man who thinks the seat should be his just because he's been waiting forty years for it. He's my main competition, and he's dangerous because he's desperate. Desperate men do stupid things.

I text back: On my way. Keep eyes on him.

I stand up, my joints cracking. I'm only twenty-eight but I feel older. Seven years of violence will do that to you. I move to the mirror and look at myself.

I'm wearing all black tonight. Black shirt, black pants, black jacket. It's my uniform now. Makes me look dangerous.

I run my hand through my hair, making sure it's neat. Can't show up looking sloppy. First impressions matter in this world, and I need these families to see me as a leader, not a thug.

Even if I am a thug. Just a well-dressed one.

I check my gun—loaded, safety on, tucked into the holster at my back. I don't go anywhere unarmed. Not anymore. Learned that lesson the hard way in Colombia. Trust no one, expect betrayal, always have an exit strategy.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Kingston: Marco just left with his wife. Heading to the Arena.

I stare at that text for a long moment. Marco's wife. Wonder what she's like. Wonder if Marco loves her or if it's just another political arrangement. That's how it works in our world. Love is a luxury. Marriage is a transaction.

I think about Sofia again. Can't help it. She's always there, in the back of my mind, a constant ache I can't soothe.

If things had been different, that could have been us. I could have married her. Could have built a life with her. Could have been happy instead of whatever I was now.

But things weren't different. My parents made sure of that.

I grab the photograph one more time, press my lips to it quickly, then tuck it into my wallet. I carry her with me everywhere. It's pathetic, probably. Definitely pathetic. But I don't care. She's all I have left of the person I used to be before everything went to hell.

Time to go. Time to play politics with people I hate. Time to smile and shake hands and pretend I'm not imagining putting bullets in half their heads.

Time to remind them all why Dante Valentino is the only choice for Pakhan.

I take one last look around the room. Marco's guest room. Neutral territory. Safe, for now. But safety is temporary in this world. Everything is temporary. Everything except the hole in my chest where my heart used to be.

I head for the door, pulling on my jacket, making sure I look presentable. Can't show weakness. Can't show that I'm barely holding it together. Can't show that every day without her is another day I'm just going through the motions.

The hallway is quiet. The house is big, expensive, tasteful. Marco's done well for himself. Good for him. At least one of us got the life we were supposed to have.

I pause at the door and look back up the stairs. Somewhere in this house, Marco's wife and daughter are probably getting ready for the evening. Probably have no idea that the person in that guest room is about to walk out and potentially destroy their carefully ordered life.

Sorry about that. But I have nothing to lose, and people with nothing to lose are the most dangerous kind.

I step outside into the cool evening air. My car is waiting—a black sedan, understated but powerful.

I slide into the driver's seat and just sit there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, breathing.

Tonight could change everything. Tonight I could secure enough votes to guarantee the Pakhan seat. Or tonight could go sideways and end with bullets and blood and another war.

Either way, I'll handle it. That's what I do. That's all I do anyway.

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway. The Arena is across town, about twenty minutes with traffic. Twenty minutes to get my head straight. Twenty minutes to bury the pain and the longing and the constant, aching need for something I can never have.

The photograph in my wallet feels heavy. She's with me. Always with me. Even though she doesn't know it. Even though she probably forgot about me years ago.

I drive through the city streets, watching the lights blur past. This used to be home. Before Colombia. Before everything. Now it's just another territory to conquer. Another battlefield.

The Arena comes into view. I can see the cars already—expensive vehicles, security everywhere, all the major players gathered in one place. This is it. This is where I make my move.

I park and sit in the car for one more moment, steeling myself.

Then I grab my phone and look at her picture one more time. Her smile. Her eyes. Everything I lost and can never get back.

"Wish me luck, farfalla, wherever you are,"