I exhale through my nose and adjust my hips, irritated beyond reason. Fuck her. I should be thinking about fentanyl-laced coke. About betrayals and transport routes and a senator who thinks he's untouchable. Instead, I'm thinking about the way she felt in my arms. That's a weakness. And weaknesses get you killed.
I open my eyes as the SUV pulls away, the city sliding back into motion outside the window. I'll deal with her later. Right now, I have an empire to protect. And a son to get back. As if on cue, my phone lights up. Enzo.
"I might have a trace," he dives in without preamble.
I straighten slightly. "On who?"
"A guy moving between Pablo's level and street distribution. He's sloppy. Thought himself invisible."
I smile without humor. "No one is invisible."
A pause. Then, "I'll have him ready."
"Take him to the warehouse."
That surprises him, and he goes quiet for half a beat. "The warehouse?" He exhales. "Not the Oven?"
"No." Not today. This needs to be close. Personal. What I don't say is that I need to hit something. Someone. I need to lose myself in the kind of violence that empties the noise out of my head and leaves only breath and bone and consequence.
"Got you. I'll have him there in an hour." If anybody gets me, it's him. He has his own ghosts to contend with.
I end the call and lean back as the SUV eats up the road, the city blurs past tinted glass. An hour. Enough time to get home and take a shower. To scrub her scent off my skin. Or try. I close my eyes for a second too long. Green eyes again.
The kiss.
The way she fit against me like my body remembers something my mind wants to erase. My jaw tightens. Fuck. I open my eyes and stare straight ahead as the car turns toward the Strip. Whatever happens in that warehouse will be clean. Simple. Pain in exchange for answers. Blood for balance. I can handle that. It's the things waiting back at my penthouse that are going to cost me.
Vegas slides past the windows in neon streaks. I don't see it. I'm counting seconds instead. Time wasted. Time stolen. Time my son is somewhere I can't reach yet. Enzo's last call still sits heavy in my ear. The SUV slows. Stops. I step out into the valet area, adjust my cuffs, and force my shoulders down. Don. Emperor. A man who does not unravel. Mask on.
The private elevator waits.
I strip off my jacket as I step inside and drape it over my arm without thinking. The motion feels wrong halfway through, like some part of me already knows tonight will not be clean. The doors close. Up. Each floor passes too slowly. My mind keeps circling back to her—Jenna. She'll be exhausted. She'll be wrecked. She'll cry. I can handle that. I expect her to come apart the way people always do when they finally run out of places to hide, out of lies to spin. To fold inward. To apologize for leaving me the way she did. For keeping my son from me. I expect tears, shaking hands, and lowered eyes. Begging, maybe. A quiet kind of repentance dressed up as regret.
I know what to do with that version of her. I'll let her speak. I'll let the guilt drain out of her until there's nothing left but relief and dependence. Until she looks at me like I'm the authority in the room. The man who decides what happens next. I expect her to crawl back to the place I left her, grateful I'm still standing here at all. Yes. That's the version of her I can live with.
The elevator stops. The doors slide open. I make my way through the antechamber and nod at the security guards. Gabe left five minutes ago after I told him I was on my way. Max opens the door to my penthouse.
She's standing there.
Not asleep.
Not curled up.
Definitely not broken.
Standing barefoot on the marble, eyes blazing, wrapped in my shirt like she chose iton purpose. She's on me, before I can say a word. "Where have you been?"
The sound hits me square in the chest. I barely step out before she's already moving toward me.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting?" she snaps. "Do you think I slept? Do you think I can sleep while my son is missing?"
This is wrong. This is not the version I prepared for. "Jenna?—"
"No." She cuts me off, jabbing a finger at my chest. "No. You don't get to say my name like that and expect calm. Where is Amauri?"
Her voice isn't breaking. It's worse. She's close now. Too close. I can smell her, soap, adrenaline, fear. My shirt hangs off her shoulder, collar stretched, sleeves too long.
She needs to be wearing something else. The thought flashes sharp and irrational. I need to fix it. I don't know why. I just do.
