CHAPTER FOUR

“PAIN MADE US STRONGER, TEARS MADE US COLDER.”

DANTE.

The whiskey burns going down, but I barely notice anymore, alcohol over the years became like water to me, which–-well wasn’t such a great thing.

I'm sitting in the guest room of Marco's house—my cousin's house, though I haven't seen the bastard in seven years and honestly don't care to, staring at the only thing I managed to keep safe through all those years in hell. A photograph. Worn at the edges now, creased from being folded and unfolded a thousand times, but still perfect. Still her.

Sofia.

My butterfly,

She's laughing in this picture, her head thrown back, dark hair catching the sunlight. I took it on my phone that last day we were together, the morning before everything went to shit and I disappeared. I had it printed later, kept it hidden, and looked at it so many times the image is burned into my brain.

I trace my finger along the edge of her face and feel that familiar ache in my chest. The one that's been there for seven years. The one that never goes away no matter how many men I kill or how much power I accumulate or how far I run.

Where are you, farfalla?

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I set the photograph down carefully—reverently, if I'm being honest, and answer without looking at the caller ID. Only one person has this number right now.

"Talk to me, Rico."

Rico's voice comes through clear despite the distance. He's back in Colombia, managing things while I'm here playing politics with people I can't stand. "Boss. Just checking in. Things are quiet here. The cartel's been behaving since you made an example of Rodriguez."

"Good. Keep it that way." I pour myself another whiskey, not because I want it but because I need something to do with my hands. Something other than putting my fist through a wall. "What about the northern territory?"

"Locked down. No movement from the Greco family. I think they got the message after what happened to their cousins."

The Greco cousins. Sixty men who thought they could double cross me. Sixty men who were very, very wrong. I spent two days hunting them down, and by the end, they were begging me to kill them just to make it stop.

Some people call that excessive. I call it effective.

"Keep eyes on them anyway," I say. "The Grecos are like cockroaches. Think you've killed them all and then three more show up. Fucking bastards. "

"Will do. Hey, boss, you need me to fly out there? You're in Marco Valentino territory without backup. Makes me nervous."

I almost smile. Rico's been with me since the beginning, since those early days when we were both just trying to survive the cartel's initiation rituals. He pulled me out of more than one bad situation. Saved my life at least twice. He's the closest thing I have to family now.

"No," I tell him. "It's Marco and you seem to forget that I am also a Valentino. No cause for alarm. Even if he tries something stupid, he has a wife and a kid now. He wouldn't want to lose them." I take a drink, let the burn settle in my stomach. "Whereas me, on the other hand, I have nothing to lose."

There's a pause on the other end. Rico knows what I'm really saying. That I'm hollow, empty and generally miserable. That I've been like this for seven years. That the only thing keeping me going is momentum and rage and the faint, desperate hope that maybe someday I'll find her again.

But I won't. I can’t not right now, with all the chaos going on. If any of the other candidates for Pahkan find out I’ve a weakness, they would exploit it to no end and I couldn’t afford that– I couldn’t afford seeing her get hurt. But I would find her, even if it means walking to the ends of the earth, I would make her mine again. Soon after I become Pakhan,

"Boss?" Rico's voice pulls me back. "You still there?"

"Yeah. Listen, check on the cartels. Make sure everything's running smooth. And those gun shipments—I don't want the Russians anywhere near that deal. They've been sniffing around, trying to cut themselves in. Shut it down. Whatever it takes."

"Consider it done. When are you coming back?"

"Few weeks. Month at most. Depends on how the succession vote goes." I glance at the photograph again. Her smile. God, her smile could light up a room. "I need to secure Marco's votes and the families in this region. Once I'm named Pakhan, I can stop playing nice with these political vultures."

"And if they don't vote for you?"

"Then it's off with their heads." I say it casually because I mean it casually. I've killed for less. "I'll be visiting the old fight club tonight. The Arena. Rally around for some votes, make some appearances, remind people why I'm the only real choice."

"The Arena?" Rico sounded intrigued. "That place is legendary. Heard stories about it even down here."

"Yeah, well, it's where the old guard goes to pretend they're still relevant. Perfect place for politics." I finish my whiskey and pour another. "I'll make my case, show them I am more than ready to lead them.”

"You are, boss. Anyone with eyes can see that."

"Seeing it and voting for it are two different things. These families are traditional. They don't trust outsiders, and I've been gone too long. Spent too much time in Colombia with the cartels. They think I've gone native, lost my Italian roots."

"Fuck 'em. You're more Italian than all of them combined. You've got the blood. Your father was the old Pakhan's brother."

"My father was also a piece of shit who tried to have me killed, so that particular endorsement doesn't carry much weight." I can hear the bitterness in my own voice. Can't help it. Seven years and I'm still angry. Still wishing I could kill my dumb parents all over again, slower this time. More painful. "But you're right. The blood matters. That's the only reason I'm even in consideration."

"You'll get it, boss. The Pakhan seat is yours. I know it."

"From your mouth to God's ears." Not that I believe in God anymore. Hard to believe in anything good when you've seen what I've seen. Done what I've done. "Anyway, I need to get ready. Meeting's in a few hours and I need to look presentable. Can't show up looking like I just crawled out of a cartel compound."

Even though that's exactly what I did two weeks ago.

"Be careful, boss. And call if you need anything. I can have a team there in twelve hours if shit goes sideways."

"I know. That's why you're my right hand, Rico. You've always got my back"

"Always will."

I end the call and set the phone down. The room feels too quiet now. Too empty. I'm used to noise—gunfire, screaming, the constant chaos of running a criminal empire. This silence makes me think too much. Feel too much.

I pick up the photograph again.

Seven years. Seven fucking years since I held her. Since I kissed her. Since I promised her we'd be together forever and then vanished the next morning like a coward.

Probably hates me, what am I saying, she would in fact hate me for leaving. I would hate me too.

I wonder sometimes if she's still in the city.

But I won't look for her. Can't. What would I even say? Sorry I disappeared for seven years, sorry I let you think I abandoned you, sorry I became a monster who kills now people for a living?

She deserves better than that. Better than me. Nah, fuck that, I was still going to find her and get her back in my arms where she belongs.

I set the photograph on the nightstand, propped up so I can see it.

She's smiling at me.

Always smiling in my memory, even though I know the last time I saw her she was probably crying.

Probably hating me.