"What do you want," he asks, slower now, "instead?"
I close my eyes for a second, letting the answer take shape.
"I want him removed," I say. "From power. From influence. From my life." I open my eyes again. "I want him to live long enough to see everything he built taken apart. Quietly. Legally. Completely." A pause. "And," I add, voice barely above a whisper, "I want him to never be able to speak to Amauri again."
Massimo studies me, not for weakness but for resolve. When he nods, it's once. Decisive.
"Done," he agrees.
No qualifiers. No conditions. Relief and grief crash together in my chest, messy and overwhelming. I lean into him without thinking, pressing my forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in.
This is the hardest choice I've ever made. But it's mine.
Two days later…
Massimo comes into the bedroom without knocking. I know what it is before I see it. He doesn't sit. Doesn't soften it. He just holds out a burner phone, his expression is as steady as ever, his eyes search my face one last time.
"It's time," he announces.
I nod. I've known this was coming. I've rehearsed it in my head, told myself I'm ready. Still, my chest tightens the moment my fingers touch the phone. I feel clumsy when I press dial. Massimo doesn't askare you sure. He already knows the answer. He presses a kiss to my temple instead—grounding, solid—and steps back, giving me space but not distance.
I draw a breath. It rings twice.
"Who is this? My father's voice comes sharp and annoyed, already defensive.
"It's me."
"Jenna? Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused me? Running off, disappearing, do you know what people are saying?"
I close my eyes for a second. How did I not see this earlier? Well, I did, but back then, I chose to ignore it.
"I do," I respond calmly. "That's kind of the point."
There's a pause. A recalibration.
"So," he scoffs, "you finally call. Let me guess, this is about that man. The mobster. Of course it is. I warned you about him."
"No," I reply. "This is about you."
His tone hardens. "Watch yourself."
I straighten, even though he can't see me. "Carter is gone." Silence follows that statement; I let him fill in what I mean withgone. "Same as Marianne and Sean," I continue. "So before you start pretending you don't know what I'm talking about—don't."
"You think this scares me?" he snaps. "You're running with criminals now, Jenna. Is that what you want? To throw your life away for?—"
"I know everything," I interrupt.
That finally does it.
"What exactly do you think you know?" he demands, but the edge is gone now. Replaced by something thinner.
"I know you ordered the hit on Massimo." I'm glad I don't have to see his face right now. "I know you paid Sean. I know Marianne facilitated it. I know how long they've been cleaning up after you."
"You don't have proof," his response is quick. Too quick.
I smile, though my eyes burn. "That's where you're wrong."
Another pause. I imagine him standing in his office, jaw clenched, already calculating exits.
