I nod. It doesn't matter; he's still a rat. Jenna takes a short intake of breath. I send a worried look at her, but her expression doesn't change.
Enzo steps out of the shadows, calm as ever. "We're ready."
Marianne sees Jenna. Her muffled scream pierces the room, high and frantic. She jerks forward in her chair, eyes huge, pleading, fixated on Jenna like she's the last lifeline left. Jennastiffens beside me, but she doesn't step back. That woman's spine is made of steel.
I move forward slowly, letting my presence settle over the room like a weight. "This," I announce evenly, "is where lies end."
I stop in front of Whitford first. He's already crying. Silent, shaking sobs he can't stop. He looks smaller like this. Reduced. The man who once thought himself untouchable. I don't address him yet. I don't raise my voice. I don't have to. I lift two fingers instead.
Enzo gives a barely perceptible nod. The sound of the soft scraping of metal wheels against concrete as Whitford's gurney shifts closer to the heart of the Oven is the only sound in the room. Not into it. Not yet. Close enough that the heat changes, that the air grows thick and oppressive, that fear sharpens into something feral. Whitford starts to whimper. I turn back to Marianne and Sean and step between them slowly, making sure they can both see Whitford. Making sure they understand exactly where this is going.
"Here's how this works," I say calmly. "He goes first."
Sean's breathing turns ragged. Marianne lets out a broken sound, halfway between a sob and a prayer. "But," I continue calmly, "one of you will not be next." Their heads snap up in unison. Hope—raw, desperate—flares in their eyes. "The one who tells me," I keep my voice conversational, "how you were involved in the hit on me. And why."
I let that sit. I don't saysaved. I don't sayfree. I don't sayalive. Justnot next. I gesture once. The gags come off. Sean breaks immediately.
"It wasn't my idea," he blurts, words tumbling over each other. "I was hired—consulting, security, logistics, nothing violent at first?—"
"Sean," Marianne gasps, panic-stricken. "Stop?—"
He doesn't even look at her. "It started small," he continues desperately. "Background checks. Quiet intimidation. Kingsley paid well?—"
Marianne cuts in, voice shrill. "Oh, don't give that bullshit, you were willing to do anything for money. You beat people up and worse before I came to you!"
Her eyes flick to Jenna again, pleading. Begging. As if Jenna could still save her. I don't intervene. This is exactly what I want.
"Kingsley told me to find someone," Marianne blurts, shaking. "He demanded I find someone to get rid of… ofhim." Her gaze flicks to me. "He said his daughter was involved with a man who would ruin her."
Jenna stiffens beside me. Marianne sees it and latches on. "It wasn't personal," she insists, tears streaming now. "It was about protecting you. Protecting the family."
I feel Jenna's breath hitch, but she doesn't speak.
"She found my firm," Sean snaps bitterly. "Northstar. She hired us. Kingsley quickly realized how useful we were." He laughs weakly, hysterical. "One job became another. And another. Until I wasn't a contractor anymore. I was on staff."
"And the hit?" I ask softly.
Sean swallows hard. "Kingsley ordered it. Paid for it. He wanted you gone before you could—" He stops himself, eyes darting to Jenna. "Before things got complicated."
The room hums. The Oven breathes. Whitford lets out a thin, broken scream as the heat inches closer, reality finally landing.
Marianne sobs openly. "I didn't know it would become this," she whispers. "I didn't know anybody would die."
I tilt my head slightly and laugh dryly, "Everyone says that."
I nod at Enzo. Whitford sees it and guesses the meaning immediately. "No, oh God, no, please. Jenna! Jenna."
Jenna steps forward, and I don't interfere. Whatever she decides here, I will stand behind her. I owe her that much.
I watch it all.I don't look away. I don't flinch. I don't cover my ears or close my eyes like some fragile thing that needs to be spared. I stand there and let it carve through me, because if I don't face it now, it will own me forever.
My father did this. The truth quietly locks into place revealing something that has always been there, waiting for me to be strong enough to name it.
Ten years. Ten years stolen. Ten years of silence, lies, and choices that were never really mine. Ten years during which Amauri never knew his real father. Ten years where Massimo suffered—alone, broken, furious—because of a decision made in a room I wasn't allowed into.
Andtheyknew.
All three of them. If not all of it, then parts. Enough to have eased my pain. Enough to have given Amauri his rightful father. They watched my life rot in slow motion and called it necessary. Called it protection. Called itfor my own good.
