Over the years, every important occasion had followed nearly the same script. Sit-downs with allied families, tribute ceremonies, the symbolic rituals that bound the syndicate together with threads of loyalty and fear. And through it all, Silvia had always stood in the most appropriate place—never too prominent, never too invisible. She knew precisely when to appear vulnerable, when to speak, when to let her silence do the work for her.
More importantly, she was skilled at redirecting problems onto me.
Accounting discrepancies in the family's legitimate fronts. Shortages in the warehouse operations. Border conflicts with rival territories. As long as she casually mentioned to Father—"I'm worried Elena might be involved"—the outcome was already sealed. No one needed evidence. No one demanded proof. The process was merely formality, a thin veneer of justice over predetermined judgment.
But this time, I was no longer the one who accepted it passively.