She kept him from me.
For ten fucking years.
Every mile the car eats up feeds the fury, sharpens it into something useful. I don't forgive. I don't forget. Wanting her doesn't change what she did.
But wanting her matters. That's the problem.
She wasn't my first. I've never pretended otherwise. Desire has never been scarce in my world, and I've never been a man who denies himself what he wants. But Jenna?—
God.
She was different. Innocent, at least at first, until I ruined her, then she wasn't fragile. She burned. Sheanswered. She didn't just take what I gave, she met it, matched it, undid me in ways no one else ever managed to. My body remembers her without asking permission, a low, dangerous pull.
I hate that I want her.
Physically. Viscerally. Enough that the thought of anyone else touching her makes something ugly coil in my chest. Enough that I can already feel the justification lining up, neat and merciless.
Maybe I don't hurt her. Maybe I make her pay another way.
She can't be punished like a man. Not really. And no matter how much I want to tear into her for what she did, I can't bring myself to destroy the mother of my child. That leaves… alternatives.
A widow is still useful.
A woman bound to me, whether she wants it or not, is leverage I understand very well. Or maybe I don't decide yet. Maybe I keep her close. Where I can see her. Touch her. Where she can't disappear again. Where every breath she takes reminds her who she belongs to now.
Because a son needs his mother.
Whether I hate her or crave her—or both—Jenna is no longer someone I can cut loose without consequence. I don't need to decide what I feel. I need to decide what Ido. She's mine to do with as I please. When I please.
The plan begins to take shape quietly, methodically, the way all good ones do. Not mercy. Not revenge.
Leverage.
The most dangerous part?
I don't know yet whether she's the weapon or the reward. Or the mistake I'll make anyway, because I've never been very good at resisting the things that ruin me.
The car slows as we near the address Enzo gave me, and security lights sweep over steel and glass.
Someone is trying to make me look weak. They picked the wrong moment. Because if there's one thing I still know how to do better than anyone, it's turn obsession into power.
The car pulls to a stop, and the noise in my head goes quiet as utter focus settles in. The dealer's name was Steven. Young. Careful. Ambitious. Exactly the kind of man I prefer working for me, smart enough to stay alive, hungry enough to listen. He picked up the coke from Pablo, one of my lieutenants. Pablo was there when the shipment came in. I was there too.
I remember it clearly.
We tested it together. Clean. No smell of chemicals. No bitterness on the tongue. Nothing raised alarms. From there, it went straight to Steven. No stops. No middlemen. Which means the contamination happened during transport. Someone got to it after it left Pablo's hands.
I step out of the car as Enzo joins me; his expression is already grim. The building Steven lived in rises in front of us, new construction, glass and steel, trying hard to look more expensive than it is. Decent. Clean. The kind of place a man rents when he wants to project success without drawing attention.
Exactly what I encourage.
Our dealers don't look desperate. They don't look flashy. They blend into high-end gyms, rooftop bars, and charity galas. They deliver to clients who pay more because they expect better. Dead clients ruin that illusion.
Inside the apartment, Enzo's people are already busy cleaning. The furniture is modern and neutral. No clutter. No chaos. Steven was careful, even in death.
"Timeline?" I look to Enzo.
"Somewhere between three and eight in the morning," he fills me in. "Security cameras show him leaving around nine last night, coming back around one."
