"So," I ask, leaning against the counter like this is casual, like my pulse isn't already picking up. "Where are you going this afternoon?"
Massimo doesn't sugarcoat it. He never does.
"L.A. The Mexican cartel has been giving us trouble, especially a man named Joaquín." My stomach tightens, but I don't interrupt. "He's been connected to some of the shithitting my business lately," Massimo continues. "And tomorrow morning, I'll have a long conversation with Sean. And Marianne. And Whitford."
The names land one by one, each heavier than the last. He watches me closely now. Not testing. Waiting. I feel it all at once, the fear, the anger, the urge to retreat, and the equal, opposite urge to burn everything down. My hands curl slightly against the counter to keep them from shaking.
"I want to be there." The words surprise me with how steady they sound. His brow lifts a fraction. "If they're involved," I continue, forcing myself to keep eye contact, "if my father had anything to do with what happened ten years ago, I have a right to know."
My chest tightens, my breath is shallow, but I push through it. "And if so, I have just as much revenge to dish out as you do."
There it is. Raw. Unfiltered. I'm terrified. Of what I'll hear. Of what I'll confirm. Of the version of myself that might emerge once the truth is spoken out loud. But underneath the fear is something harder. Resolve. I've spent too many years being managed, redirected, and protected from ugly truths like a fragile thing. I'm done with that. Done being spared at the cost of my agency. I swallow. My voice is softer now, but no less firm. "I'm asking you not to shield me. I'm asking you not to shut me out."
My gaze flicks, unbidden, toward the hallway, toward Amauri.
"I've already crossed the line," I add quietly. "The moment I asked you to save our son. I'm not pretending otherwise." I straighten, meeting Massimo's eyes fully now. "I'm scared," I admit. "But I'm not backing down."
Whatever comes next—whatever truths crawl out into the light—I won't face them blind. Not anymore.
The jet humsbeneath my feet like a living thing. Not loud. Not showy. Controlled. Purpose-built. Leather, brushed steel, low light that never quite lets you forget you're airborne. I've always liked that about planes; you're never allowed the illusion of permanence. Everything is temporary at thirty thousand feet.
I loosen my cuff and settle into the seat opposite Alessio. The city lights of Las Vegas fall away beneath us, shrinking into glitter, then darkness. Home recedes. Responsibility doesn't.
The flight attendant pours me a drink without asking. Stagg bourbon. Neat. She's been with me long enough to know to keep herself unobtrusive. The first sip burns slow and deep, familiar as muscle memory. It settles my nerves without dulling my edges. I need both this afternoon.
We're heading to L.A. with a small army and a narrow window. Joaquín thinks he's clever. He thinks proximity equals safety. He's wrong. California isn't neutral ground; it's a marketplace. And I owe favors for Enzo contacting Antonio DeLuna—one of the New York capos—as a courtesy to let him know a shitstorm is about to land in his territory. And to assure him that I'll clean up the mess.
Alessio spreads the tablet between us, satellite images glowing faintly in the dim cabin. "He'll be at the Avalon warehouse by nightfall," he points at a set of nondescriptbuildings. "Light security. He's been moving like he doesn't expect resistance."
I snort quietly. "They never do."
We go over the plan, intercept, isolate, and collapse the perimeter before he realizes he's already lost. It's clean. Efficient. My kind of work. Alessio talks. I listen, ask the right questions, and make small adjustments that turn good plans into fatal ones. But even as we talk, my mind keeps circling back.
Jenna.
The way she stood there in my kitchen, spine straight, fear present but not steering. The way she didn't flinch when I told her about Whitford. The way she claimed her place without asking permission. She won't just be a queen. She'll be a partner. The realization settles in my chest, heavy and undeniable. I've ruled alone for a long time. Trusted men. Relied on loyalty, fear, and structure. It worked. It always has. But watching her piece things together—watching her see what I missed, connect what I dismissed—made something shift. Without her, Kingsley would still be a shadow. Oh, he would've died eventually—men like him always do—but Bello and my uncle, the lie I built an empire on? That rot would've stayed buried. I owe her. Not in blood. Not in favors. In truth.
That doesn't mean I'll show her everything. Some ugliness serves no purpose but to stain. But tomorrow—tomorrow she has a right to be there. To hear it from their mouths. To look herhusbandin the eye when the illusion finally breaks. I take another sip of bourbon.
Alessio finishes his rundown and leans back. "You okay, boss?"
I glance at him, then out the window. The sky is endless. Indifferent.
"She's stronger than I thought," I say finally.
He nods once. "It sounds like it. I'd like to meet her."
"You will."
The plane dips slightly as we adjust course. Somewhere behind us, men check weapons, review routes, and prepare to do what they do best. Joaquín will learn that he miscalculated. But the real reckoning is waiting for morning.
I roll the glass between my fingers, watching the amber catch the light.
The jet touches down without ceremony. No applause. No wasted movement. The engines idle while doors open and men move. We don't announce ourselves. Black SUVs swallow us whole and spit us back out miles later, closer to the industrial spine of the city where the rules thin, and the lights stop pretending.
The warehouse sits exactly where Alessio said it would. Concrete. Corrugated steel. Sodium lights buzz overhead like insects. The kind of place people use when they don't want to be seen or remembered. I study it from the shadow of the SUV, taking in exits, sightlines, the lazy rhythm of men who think they're safe. We receive confirmation from one of our men that Joaquín is inside.
"Positions," I murmur.
