Elijah Vega.
Shit. I’m late.
I stayed too long at the Celestial Casino, making sure our VIP members didn’t wreck the place. And by VIPs, I mean Russian mobsters and top-tier mafias who were drunk on tequilas and entitlement—those types who don’t blink before pulling a trigger. They played triad enforcers on the roulette tables. By the time I smoothed things over with a few comped bottles and a discreetly placed bouncer, the clock had bled into disaster territory.
The estate is quiet when I step inside, too quiet. That kind of silence only happens when the Don is in the surrounding area. Even the housekeepers know better than to breathe loudly when my father is around. He stays in the East Wing where he conducts sedated meetings, and shadowy conversations. The only ones allowed near him
