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Something came up. Don't wait up for me.

Passerotta

Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Do what you have to do.

What can I say? That woman is fucking perfect.

I prob won't be back until tomorrow night.

Passerotta

I'll miss you. Be careful.

We get into the plane and take our seats.

"Boss?" Vito throws me a questioning glance, pushing a glass of Blue Label over to me.

I take the glass of scotch and knock it back in one smooth sip, letting the burn chase away thoughts of Scarlet.

Right now, I need to be Antonio DeLuna—the man who runs the money and keeps the machine moving—not Toni, the man who was just picturing glossy eyes and hearing the whispered echo of"I'll miss you."

I roll my neck, setting the glass down with a hard clink, back to business.

Vito leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, his face a mask of controlled fury, while I drum my fingers against the table. I'm missing something, I know I am. This doesn't make any sense. I never wanted that territory. I'm not into selling drugs, that's something Edoardo forced on me. From the beginning, the Venezuelans have been a thorn in my side. But they've been quiet ever since they tested the waters after the takeover.

So, "Why now? Why Alfonso?"

Vito shakes his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it? They could’ve gone after any of our guys, but they picked the bookkeeper. Thattells me they’re not just looking to send a message—they want something.”

I lean back in my seat, exhaling through my nose. “The money.”

“That’s my guess.” Vito swirls the whiskey in his glass, his expression dark. “Alfonso knows too much. Where every dollar goes, how it moves, which offshore accounts it touches. If he talks?—”

“He won’t.” My voice is cold, final. “Alfonso’s loyal. He knows the price of betrayal.”

Vito gives me a look. “Yeah? And what about his wife?”

I don’t answer right away. Because that’s the problem. Wives are always the problem. They make us weak. Alfonso? He’d die before opening his mouth. But his wife? He loves her.

I grind my teeth, tapping my fingers against the armrest, considering what I would do if Matías Rivera, the head of the Venezuelan gang, had Scarlet in his hands. Rage threatens to overcome me just at the idea of that scumbag laying his hands on her. Then again, I would have never allowed him to take her. He would have been forced to kill me first. Still, “She’s the leverage.”

Vito nods. “They’ll start with her. Hurt her in front of him, maybe send you a piece of her just to make a point.”

A slow, simmering rage curls through my chest. “If they do, I’ll burn their fucking world to the ground.”

Vito doesn’t even blink. “So what’s the play?”

I stare out the jet window at the black sky. I can feel LA getting closer, that familiar suffocating weight pressing down on me. I hate that place. “We land, and we get eyes on every singleVenezuelan stronghold in the city. I want to know who’s talking, who’s moving, and who the fuck let this happen.”

Vito smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Now you’re talking.”

We spent the next hour on the phone, calling our contacts in LA. A map is spread out on the table, and we mark the spots Matías might have taken the Romanos.

LA always feels different from New York. Same money, same corruption, but the energy is volatile. There’s no centuries-old tradition, like in the Cosa Nostra, and no unspoken codes like back home. Just power grabs, dirty money, and bullets flying between gangs who don’t know when to stay in their fucking lane.

My men are waiting for me on the tarmac, engines running, guns loaded. The second I step off the plane, the hunt begins. If the Venezuelans think they can steal from me and walk away breathing, they have no idea who they're dealing with.

I send another quick text to Scarlet, thinking she'll see it in the morning.