Something flickers. Just a crack. He exhales slowly, his jaw tightens, his eyes darken with something that isn't anger.
"I heard that too." A pause. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry."
The words land heavier than anything else he's said. I don't know why, but they almost undo me all over again. I realize with terrifying clarity that whoever stands in front of me now isn't the man I loved. But he might still be the only one who can save my son. The old Massimo would already be on his knees in front of me, asking what he could do. How fast. How far. Who needed to bleed.
This one—this one doesn't move. He watches me like I'm a variable in a science experiment. I don't know what to say. That's the scary part. I've spoken to presidents, donors, and media sharks with smiles like knives. I know how to spin a room, how to bend a narrative until it breaks in my favor.
But this man?
I don't know how to reach him anymore. Most terrifying of all is that Amauri's life is ticking away while I hesitate. The thought turns my stomach. I hate myself for what comes next, for the way my mind shifts into survival mode. For the cold, ugly realization that this is no longer about truth or fairness or what anyone deserves. It's about leverage. And I have none. He doesn't need any money. There is no power he doesn't already own. No secret, at least none that would scare him.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes cutting, dismissive. "So why are you here?" he asks coldly, gesturing vaguely around the penthouse. At the glass walls. Himself. "Daddy doesn't have enough reach?"
The words sting more than I would have expected. My throat tightens, but I force myself to breathe through it.
"My father knows who took them," I tread carefully. "And he's choosing not to help."
That earns me a flicker of interest. Not sympathy. Calculation.
"He thinks it's… advantageous," I continue, hating every syllable. "To let this play out."
Massimo's mouth tightens, just a fraction. "That's cold, even for the old bastard."
I swallow hard.
"I don't have anyone else," I admit. And this time I don't dress it up. Don't strategize. "You're the only one who can get my son back."
Silence stretches. I can feel the weight of the city pressing in through the glass, all that power and violence and consequence humming just beneath the surface. I meet his gaze, even though it hurts.
"I know you don't owe me anything," I add quietly. "I know you hate me. But Amauri is innocent. He didn't choose any of this." My voice breaks despite my best efforts. "And if you don't help me," I whisper, "he will die." I hold his eyes, refusing to look away.
He turns away from me. Moves to the bar like this conversation is nothing more than background noise. It's early—too early—but he doesn't hesitate. He reaches for a bottle that looks expensive and dangerous, pours himself a generous amount, and drinks it down like a man dying of thirst. The muscles in his throat work as he swallows. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was stalling. Hope flares anyway. Stupid. Desperate.Please,I beg silently.Please, please, please.
He pours another glass. Slower this time. Turns it in his hand once before drinking again. Then he faces me. His eyes are cold. So, so cold.
"And what would you do," he asks evenly, "if I got your son back?"
The answer comes without hesitation and in one breath. "Anything." The word falls out of me like a confession.
His mouth curves, not a smile. Something sharper.
"Anything?" he repeats. Mocking now. "You do know who you're negotiating with."
I nod. I do. God help me, I do.
"I'd do anything for him," I say. My voice shakes, but I don't stop. "For him."
"Him?" he echoes.
I nod again. "My son."
He lets out a short, humorless chuckle and turns back to the bar, pouring another bourbon like he needs it to keep himself upright. Ice-cold ants climb around inside my stomach, freezing me, and I wrap my arms around myself. I've never seen him like this, not even when we buried…
"You know what I find interestingly disturbing?" he throws over his shoulder, interrupting my thoughts.
I hold my breath. Shake my head. He sets the glass down with deliberate care and walks toward me. Every step tightens something in my chest. More ice ants begin to move through me, spreading from my stomach.
"You haven't pleaded for your husband yet," he says calmly. "The man you couldn't wait to marry."
