Page 44 of Sadistic

"Then we offer him a partnership," I say finally. "Shared territory, controlled expansion."

"He wants blood."

"Everyone wants blood until they see the profit margins." I turn back to my father. "What does he really want? Power? Money? Revenge?"

"All three. But mostly, he wants respect. Recognition. To be seen as an equal player, not some upstart nephew riding his family's coattails."

"Then we give him that. Make him feel important while keeping him leashed."

My father's smile is sharp. "You sound like me at your age."

"I had a good teacher."

"Your mother would say you had two." He swirls his whiskey. "She called this morning. Said she likes Revna, that she has a strong backbone."

"She does."

"Good. She'll need it, married to you." He's quiet for a moment. "You know, at first when I saw your mother, I thought she was just another pretty face. Here to look decorative. I didn’t think she had the kahunas to do the tough shit."

"What changed your mind?"

"She broke a man's finger for grabbing her ass one time. Didn't even spill her champagne doing it." His smile turns nostalgic. "That's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That even with everything life threw at us, we were meant to be."

"And now?"

"Thirty-three years later, she still terrifies me." He finishes his drink. "That's how you know it's real, son. When they scare you more than any enemy ever could."

We spend the rest of the flight strategizing.

By the time we land in Havana, we have three different approaches planned.

Offer, threaten, negotiate.

The trinity of mob diplomacy.

The meeting location is neutral ground—a cigar lounge overlooking the Malecón.

Old Havana sprawls around us, all crumbling beauty and hidden danger.

Perfect for this kind of conversation.

The air is thick with humidity and fuck, it’s hard to breathe here.

Bembe Reyes is already waiting, surrounded by guards who look like they eat steroids for breakfast.

He's younger than his photo suggested, with an energy that reminds me of a caged animal.

Hungry. Desperate. Dangerous.

"The Russians come to Cuba," he says by way of greeting, not bothering to stand. "How... nostalgic."

"Nostalgic implies living in the past," I respond, taking the offered seat. "We're here to discuss the future."

"Are we?" He lights a cigar, taking his time, making us wait. Power play 101. "Because from where I sit, you're here to protect the past. Those bikers who killed my brother."