He nods once. Doesn't argue. Doesn't follow. The guest bedroom welcomes me back in its sterile luxury. I close the door, lean my forehead against it for a second longer than necessary, then cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. I don't think I can sleep. I don't think my mind or the pain in my chest will let me. When they say your heart bleeds, they weren't lying, and it hurts. Exhaustion, however, doesn't ask permission. I lie down, the sheets cool against my skin, and inhale Massimo'sscent that still clings faintly to the shirt I'm wearing. Against all expectations, I fall asleep. Not peacefully. But deeply. As if my body knows the war has begun and is stealing what rest it can before everything breaks loose.
"So I left,"she concludes. "And came here."
The words land harder than they should. Jenna Whitford doesn't runtowardsafety. She runs toward fire and hopes it burns the right people first. I'm about to ask the next question. The one that matters. The one that will decide whether I throw her out or lock her in. When my phone rings. Enzo.Shit, I don't have time for this.
"Not now, Enzo," I snap, irritation flaring hot and sharp. I turn slightly, half-present, my attention still split. Part of me is still tracking her posture, the way she's holding herself upright by force of will alone, the other is already bracing.
He must hear the impatience in my voice, my distraction, because he throws the words at me like bumper stickers to catch my attention. "We found more laced Coke. Same signature. Fentanyl."
My jaw tightens. My brow furrows as the words come through the line, precise and methodical, slotting into place like teeth on a gear.
"I'll be right there." I end the call. Whatever else is happening, this needs my immediate attention.
I stare at Jenna, the urge to pull her into my arms collides head-on with the urge to crush the life out of her. Both instincts are sharp. Both feel earned.
I settle for, "Get some rest. I need to go." Turning to Gabe, I order, "You stay here. Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."
"Yes, boss," he replies easily.
Trusting him, I pull the phone back out and dial Enzo as I exit my penthouse and enter the security antechamber, where my guards instantly stand to attention. One presses the elevator button, and the other six fall in line.
"Stay here, Max. Nobody in, nobody out," I order.
"Yes, boss."
"Boss?" Enzo answers.
"Where?" I bark out, pushing the casino level button.
He gives me the address of one of our dealers who was found dead a few minutes ago. He gives me more details on my ride down and on my way to the valet area, where three SUVs are already idling.
"And Massimo," Enzo adds, "this was doneafterit left our control."
I close my eyes for half a second.
That's when I feel it, the pressure from both sides. My empire is bleeding in places people can see. And a few stories above me, a woman is wrapped in my shirt, looking like she might break if someone touches her wrong. Two wars. One distraction.
"I'm on my way." I end the call.
The city slides past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow, Vegas breathing neon like nothing is wrong. Something is very wrong. This isn't random. It never is. Someone is moving against me with intention, touching my product, poisoningmyreputation, testing how far they can go without forcing my hand. They're not trying to burn my empire down. They're trying to make itturnon me. That's what I should be thinking about. About the structure. The routes. The men who might be wavering. The pattern forming just beneath the surface.
Instead, I see her.
In my shirt.
Fuck.
The memory hits uninvited, vivid as a bruise. The way the fabric swallowed her frame, how it slipped off one shoulder because she was too tired to notice. Bare legs. Wet hair. Wrapped hands. She looked like she'd been pulled out of a wreck and set down somewhere she didn't belong. I didn't give her options. I know that. She took what she could find. Still, why did it have to bethatshirt?
I grip my jaw, irritation flaring hot. It's ridiculous. A shirt means nothing. It's fabric. Cotton. Replaceable. Except it isn't. She shouldn't look like that in anything of mine. She looked… fragile. Beautifully broken.
The thought turns sour immediately. I wanted to fix her, just like back then. The instinct came fast and dangerous, the urge to pull her into my arms, to press her head against my chest and promise her that everything would be okay. That I would make it okay. That nothing else would touch her. God help me, I still want that. The pull she has on me is uncanny. Even knowing what I do about her. Sirena. What they didn't tell you in legends is that even if you manage to walk away, their allure will never leave you. Eventually, they'll get you.
Then Amauri cuts through the fantasy like a blade.
My son.
The word snaps me back into place, rage surges hard enough to wipe everything else clean.
