Chapter 179: Prodigal sons

Chapter 179: Prodigal sons
Three days later, the city felt like a battleground.
Kieran hadn’t slept more than four hours in total. He moved on caffeine, adrenaline, and a cold, simmering rage. The strategy was simple: burn everything Gabo Valente touched until the smoke forced him out.
"The main warehouse is gone," Jack reported from the passenger seat of the SUV. He held up a tablet showing grainy news footage of a structural fire. "That was his main distribution hub for the synthetic stuff. We hit the stash houses yesterday. He’s bleeding cash, Boss. He’s got nowhere to store the product and no one to sell it."
Kieran stared out the window at the passing gray streets. "Good."
Solomon, driving the car, glanced at Kieran in the rearview mirror. "We’re meeting Rocco. He took over Olmo’s territory after the vacuum. He claims he’s loyal, but he’s been quiet during the transition."
"Quiet is fine," Kieran muttered. "Quiet I can deal with."
They pulled up to a sprawling, gaudy mansion that looked out of place among the more modest homes of the neighborhood. Rocco wasn't subtle. He liked gold, he liked loud suits, and he liked people to know he was earning.
Kieran stepped out, adjusting his cuffs. He felt the weight of the gun at his hip. Solomon fell into step beside him, the silent shadow. Since the conversation at the pier, the dynamic hadn't changed outwardly, but there was a shift in the way they moved. A tighter synchronization.
Rocco met them at the door, sweating slightly despite the air conditioning. He was a beefy man with a nervous tick in his left eye.
"Mr. Karakatsanis," Rocco said, bowing his head too low. "Mr. Vance. Welcome. Please, come in. I have espresso. I have—"
"I don't want coffee, Rocco," Kieran said, walking past him into the foyer. "I want to know why your kickbacks are light this week. Are you having trouble collecting? Or are you hedging your bets on who wins this war?"
"No! No, never!" Rocco stammered, following him into the living room. "It’s just… With the explosions, the police heat is everywhere. It’s hard to move the money."
Kieran stopped. Sitting in Rocco’s living room, nursing a glass of scotch on a velvet armchair, was a man who looked entirely too comfortable.
Ernest Vance.
Ernest looked up, his smile polite, practiced, and completely devoid of warmth. "Oh. The prodigal sons."
Kieran turned to Rocco, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "What the fuck is this?"
Rocco looked between them, sensing the sudden drop in temperature. "What? Oh, this is Vance. Ernest Vance, you must have heard of him. He’s a… a consultant. He’s been helping me launder the influx from the new gambling dens. He’s good with the books, Boss. Really." Rocco chuckled nervously and turned to Solomon. "Funny thing, I was just asking him… You two share a name, right? Vance? Are you related?"
Solomon stepped forward, his eyes burning holes into his father. "Unfortunately."
Rocco laughed, oblivious to the fact that he was the only one. "Small world, huh? Well, Vance said he could help streamline the—"
"I’d like a word with your friend," Kieran interrupted, his eyes never leaving Ernest. "Alone."
Rocco swallowed. "Of course. I’ll… I’ll go check on that espresso. Just in case." He scurried out of the room, closing the double doors behind him.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Ernest took a sip of his scotch. "You look tired, Kieran. Leading a war must be exhausting."
"What are you doing here, Ernest?" Kieran asked, walking over to the wet bar and pouring himself a water. He didn't offer one to Solomon. He didn't offer anything to Ernest.
"Is it so wrong for a father to want to finally meet his son in person?" Ernest asked, his voice dripping with faux sentimentality. "My eldest son, at that. I was caught by surprise with this… Revelation. We don’t know each other and I thought perhaps it was time to rectify that."
"Cut the crap," Kieran said, slamming the glass down on the counter. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. "You didn't come here for a family reunion. You came here because you’re a bottom feeder. You only show up when there’s blood in the water."
Ernest’s smile didn't waver, but his eyes hardened. He set his glass down. "You’re sharp. I like that. Rose always did have a sharp tongue; I see you inherited it."
Solomon took a step toward him, his hand twitching toward his weapon. "Don't talk about her."
"Relax, son," Ernest waved a dismissive hand. "You're so emotional. Unlike your brother here." He turned back to Kieran. "You're right. I'm not here for sentiment. I'm here because war is profitable, Kieran. And your war with Gabo Valente? It is full of opportunities."
"I don't want your help," Kieran said cold.
"Don't you? Gabo is desperate. Desperate men do irrational things. And irrational things affect the market." Ernest stood up, buttoning his jacket. "I’m betting on you, Kieran. I’m putting my chips on the winner. I have connections in banking sectors you don't even know exist. I can help you freeze him out completely. I can make sure he can't buy a pack of gum in this hemisphere."
"And what do you want in return?" Kieran asked.
"I’ll get what I want, regardless," Ernest said simply. "But I do want to be by your side. All your money… I can triple it."
Kieran stared at him. The sheer audacity was almost impressive. "You think I’d trust you with my money?"
"I think you’re smart enough to use a tool that works, even if you don't like the handle."
Kieran opened his mouth to tell him to get out, to tell him that if he ever saw his face again he’d carve it off, but his phone vibrated against his ribs. It was the dedicated line. The one he had left with Catherine.
He held up a hand, silencing the room. He pulled the phone out.
"Babe?"
"Not quite."
The voice was distorted, but the cadence was unmistakable. Gabo.
Kieran went still. "Where did you get this phone?"
"Your wife is very protective of her purse," Gabo said, his voice sounding manic, breathless. "But she’s less protective when there’s a gun to the little girl’s head."
Kieran felt the blood drain from his face. The room spun. "If you touch them..."
"Save the threats!" Gabo screamed. "I’m done with threats! I have them, Kieran! I have the Santoro bitch and the little brat you made together! We’re already gone. Don't bother checking the hotel; your men are dead."
Solomon saw the change in Kieran instantly—the way the color left his skin, the way his pupils dilated. "Kieran?"
"What do you want?" Kieran whispered into the phone.
"I want out!" Gabo yelled. "I want fifty million in bearer bonds. The old ones Marco kept in the safe. And I want a plane ready at Teterboro in two hours. Or I send your girls back to you in pieces."
The line went dead.
Kieran lowered the phone slowly. He looked at Solomon, his expression hollowed out by terror.
"He has them," Kieran said, his voice trembling. "He has Catherine and Chiara."
Solomon looked like he had been punched in the gut.
Kieran ran a hand through his hair, panic starting to set in. "He wants bearer bonds. Marco's old bonds."
"Those are worthless," Ernest spoke up from the corner.
Kieran spun on him, eyes wild. "What?"
"The bearer bonds," Ernest said, stepping forward, his face serious now. "Marco invalidated them years ago. If Gabo tries to cash them or use them as collateral, they’ll flag his location immediately. They’re useless paper."
"He doesn't know that," Kieran realized. "He thinks they're his ticket out."
"He asked for them?" Ernest asked. "Specifically?"
"Yes."
Ernest’s eyes narrowed in thought. "He must be truly desperate."
"Where?" Kieran demanded, grabbing Ernest by the lapels. "Where is he taking them, Ernest? If you know anything, tell me now or I swear to God—"
"The shipyard in the east harbor," Ernest gasped, not fighting the grip. "Marco bought a container yard under a shell company in the nineties, I handled that acquisition. It’s where he kept the physical archives. The bond certificates. If Gabo wants the bonds, he has to go there to get the serial numbers to verify them."
Kieran released him, shoving him back. He looked at Solomon. "East Harbor. Go."
Solomon was already moving toward the door.
Kieran turned back to Ernest. "If they aren't there..."
"They're there," Ernest said, fixing his jacket, a gleam of calculation returning to his eyes. "Go get them. And remember who gave you the location, Kieran. Remember who helped you win."
Kieran didn't waste another second. He sprinted out of the house, into the car, and roared away.