No questions are voiced. No explanations are given. There are a thousand things hanging between us—how, when, why, what she knew, what she didn't—but none of them matter right now. Those are wounds to reopen later. Right now, there's only one direction.
Gabe nods once. That's it.
He pulls his phone out, already moving, already five steps ahead. His voice shifts, not louder, just colder. "I need everything you have on the Whitford kidnapping," he orders into the phone. "Timeline. Footage. Air traffic. Cell pings. Shell companies. Anyone who breathed near that helicopter."
He listens for half a second, then cuts in. "No filters. No delays. I don't care who it pisses off."
He ends the call and looks at me again. "War?"
I don't hesitate. "Yes."
The word lands heavy. Final. Gabe's mouth curves, sharp and satisfied, like a blade finding its groove. He starts tapping messages, fingers flying. I know what that means: doors opening that don't usually open, people waking up to find their phones ringing with names they don't want to see.
I straighten slowly; the frozen peas slip from my hand and thud softly onto the counter. "They touched my blood. They took him."
Gabe's eyes darken. "They just signed their death warrants."
Outside, the Strip keeps glittering. Inside, something ancient and merciless unfurls its wings. This is what happens when men like us stop reacting and start hunting. Somewhere in this city, people are still breathing who won't be by nightfall. The war doesn't announce itself.
It just begins.
I'm sotired it feels like my bones are hollow. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that seeps into your marrow and stays there, humming. My head throbs in slow, punishing waves, and pain pushes the medication the doctor gave me. Every blink feels like an effort.
My hands are wrapped in thick, layered white gauze, making them clumsy and foreign. Earlier, the doctor picked tiny rocks and cactus spines from my palms one by one, apologizing each time his tweezers pinched skin instead of thorn. I cried the entire time. Silently. I couldn't help it.
My hands look like a wrapped mummy, which just makes me think more of Amauri. Of how small his hands looked wrapped in mine when he was learning to walk. How he used to press his palms flat against my cheeks when he wanted my full attention.
"Anything else hurt?" the doctor asks.
Nothing he can fix, so I shake my head. "No," I whisper. My throat tightens anyway.
"Just scrapes and bruises," he diagnoses, almost kindly. "You were lucky. Nothing sprained. Nothing broken."
Lucky. The word lands wrong. I start crying again, silent and shaking, my shoulders fold in on themselves. Lucky that my son was taken. Lucky that my husband was dragged off. Lucky that I escaped just far enough to watch it happen.
The doctor watches me with a detached sympathy that feels practiced. He's older, gray at the temples, eyes dulled like someone who's seen too much suffering to react the way people expect. He pats my shoulder once, awkward but not unkind.
"Take care of yourself now," he suggests.
It's probably the closest he'll come to comfort. He opens the door to leave, and voices drift in from the other side. Low. Male. Controlled. Massimo isn't alone anymore.
The door closes softly, cutting the sound off, but it's too late. The knowledge settles in, heavy and unavoidable. I just want to curl up on the bed and disappear in this immaculate room that is too perfect. Cream-colored walls, dark wood accents, sheets so crisp they barely wrinkle beneath me. Everything smells faintly of clean linen and something sharper underneath, money, power, order.
Before he wrapped my hands, the doctor let me shower. The bathroom is obscene in its luxury. Marble everywhere, warm beneath my bare feet. Water that came down in a steady, enveloping sheet, hot enough to sting, then soothe. I stood under it longer than necessary, letting it pound against my scalp, trail down my back, carry dirt and blood and fear down the drain.
For just a moment, I closed my eyes and forced myself to forget. To forget helicopters, forget the screams, forget the look on Amauri's face. It lasted maybe thirty seconds.
Now I'm wearing a shirt I found in the walk-in closet. Too big. Soft. It smells like Massimo: clean, masculine, and unmistakable. The scent wraps around me like a memory I didn't ask for, makes my chest ache in a way I don't have the energy to fight.
I know I need to go out there. I know I need to face him again. Whatever comes next. Whatever punishment or bargain or war he decides on. But I'm so tired. So bone-weary.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my wrapped hands, breathing in the scent of him, and wonder how much more a person can lose before there's nothing left to take. With effort, I force myself off the bed. Every step feels like wading through water, but I keep going anyway. The door opens without sound, and the living area stretches out before me, glass and marble, city rising beyond the windows like a living thing.
Just like I thought, he isn't alone. There's a stranger with him now. Tall. Dark-haired. Broad shoulders under a jacket worn like armor. He's handsome in the way men who live close to violence often are—sharp lines, controlled posture—but there's something cruel carved into his features. Not flashy. Not theatrical. Just… permanent. Like he's learned exactly where mercy fails and never bothered looking for it again. Then again, Massimo wears the same mark now.
"Jenna," Massimo announces flatly without looking at me. It hurts anyway. "Gabriel," he adds, turning slightly.
"Gabe," the other corrects mildly.
