HIS BUTTERFLY BETWEEN TWO DONS

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 s**t 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. f*****g 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."