Page 79 of High Reward

I don’t move. “I’m busy.”

“Yes. Playing club owner while your city burns around you.” His tone is mild, but the criticism cuts. “The Russians are moving in again. Did you know? Using Phineas Draven as cover. And others.”

My jaw tightens. “I have the situation under control.”

“Do you?” He looks past me, scanning the street. “Trinity Novak shot, a car with a bomb in it, kidnapping the wife of your enemy and then sleeping with her. This is control?”

Heat crawls up my neck. “You’ve been watching.”

“Of course I have.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Your brother sends his regards. He wanted to come himself, but someone needed to mind the business.”

Andres, the dutiful son. The loyal one. The one who stayed.

“Is this a social call?” I ask. “Because I have somewhere to be.”

“With your women? The wife of Draven and the little mouse from the sandwich shop?” He sees my expression darken and raises a hand. “Peace, Victor. I’m not here to judge your personal choices. I’m here because our interests have aligned.”

My legs feel heavy as I climb the steps of my own goddamn house, stopping just short of arm’s reach. “Explain.” That’s twicetoday that someone has referred to Grace as a mouse, and I don’t appreciate it. Not when I know her the way I do. My butterfly.

“Inside.” He rises smoothly, no wasted motion despite his age. “These matters are not for the street.”

I hesitate, then unlock the door. “Your men stay outside.”

Miguel stiffens, but my father nods. “As you wish.”

The guards remain on the porch as we enter. The house is cool and still, undisturbed since we evacuated to the club. A jacket of Lili’s hangs over the back of a chair. Grace’s textbooks are stacked neatly on the coffee table. Signs of the life I’ve built, the one he’s now invading.

My father notices them too, his eyes scanning the room. I lead him to the kitchen, unwilling to let him deeper into our private spaces.

“Drink?” I ask, heading to the liquor cabinet.

“Tequila. Neat. As long as you have the good stuff.”

I pour two glasses from a bottle of sipping tequila that costs almost three hundred dollars and slide one across the island counter to him. He takes it but doesn’t drink, watching as I take a long swallow of my own.

“You look tired, son.”

“Cut the concerned father act. Tell me why you’re here.”

He sits at the counter, sets his glass down untouched. “The Russians are pushing into Vegas again. Using Draven, using others. They’re smarter this time. Working through legitimate businesses, casino licenses, real estate. Building influence with the city council and the mayor. But the goal is the same. Territory.”

I remain standing, keeping the counter between us. “And this concerns you because?”

“Because, as much as I hate to admit it, you and your friends have done a decent job of making Las Vegas a neutral territory. If it falls to the Russians, the balance shifts. West Coast routesbecome vulnerable. Our markets, our distribution channels.” He finally sips his tequila. “Your markets. Your territory.”

“I’m not in the family business anymore.”

“You never left.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “You just changed venues. Your club, your casino connections, they’re all built on our name, our reputation. You think I don’t know what you and your friends are doing here? I’ve let it go for as long as I can, but Las Vegas will be Serrano territory again. With or without you.”

I say nothing, jaw tight.

“The Russians remember Mexico City,” he continues. “They remember what you did to their people. The man you so viciously tortured to death. They’ll come for you specifically, Victor. For your club. For your women.”

The mention of Lili and Grace sends a cold spike through me. “They can try.”

My father studies me over the rim of his glass. “You asked for my help. Protection for your girls. Now I’m here, offering more than that. Offering you a chance to finish this properly. To secure your territory permanently.”

I take another drink, letting the tequila burn off some of my frustration. Outside, the guards remain motionless on my front porch. Inside, my father waits for my response, patient as always.