Fuck him for vanishing ten years ago like I was nothing. Like what we had was disposable. One day he was there—dangerous and intense and real—and the next he was justgone. No explanation. No goodbye. Just absence.
Poof.
And now he has the audacity to stand there and look at me likeIcommitted some unforgivable crime because I didn't bring a baby to his doorstep while he was off doing whatever he was doing?
I didn'twithholdAmauri. I protected him.
The memory sharpens my spine instead of softening it.
I didn't know where Massimo Manetti went. He was like a ghost. We had disposable phones we only used to contact eachother, and his went silent just like him. So yeah, fuck him. He walked out onme! I didn't know if he'd ever come back. My father gave me two choices. Marry Carter or get an abortion.
So yes. I chose.
I chose my son. And three months later, I was married to Carter. If that makes me guilty in his eyes, he can choke on it.
I stop pacing long enough to plant my hands on my hips and stare at his bedroom door. He's in there now. I can hear the shower running. I can almost see the steam fogging up the glass like this is just another night, another problem he'll wash off his skin before going out to solve his problems with violence and money.
Good for him. I don't get that luxury.
I don't get to be distracted, especially not by the infuriating fact that my body still remembers his. The way he fills space. The way my pulse reacts when he's too close. No. I shove that thought down hard.
I don't get to be horny.
I don't get to be nostalgic.
I don't get to want him.
Amauri is missing.
Everything else is noise.
If Massimo decides this is too complicated, too political, too slow—if he starts talking about strategy while my son is somewhere terrified and alone?—
I'll do it myself. I have connections. Not like his. Not armies or empires or warehouses full of men who kill on command. But I'm not powerless. I know people who owe my father. I know people who oweme. I know how to move quietly when I must. If I have to burn bridges to get Amauri back, I will. If I have to walk into hell without Massimo, I will. He doesn't get the moral high ground. He doesn't get to decide how this goes.
The shower shuts off. My heart kicks once, hard, traitorous. For a moment, I wonder if he still likes it as hot as he used to. Then I straighten my spine and still myself. Whatever comes out of that room isn't a savior. He's either an ally—or he's in my way.
I will not hesitate to remove obstacles.
I've killed a man before. Not in anger. Not for power. I did it because he didn't stop. I'd do it again. Now more than ever.
The door opens. Massimo steps out. Fully dressed. Black suit, cut sharp enough to look like it could draw blood. Black shirt beneath it, no softness anywhere, no concessions. A red tie at his throat. Dark, deliberate, like he put it on knowing exactly what it does to people. To me.
His hair is dry now, dark brown so deep it's almost black, brushed back in that careless way that isn't careless at all. His face is all hard lines and control, his eyes piercing, unreadable, dangerous. He looks like a gangster. Not the myth. Not the romanticized version. The real thing. The kind of man mothers warn their daughters about and daughters dream about anyway. Every inch of him is confidence, power, violence wrapped in tailoring that probably costs more than most people's cars.
My body reacts before I can stop it. Heat. Low and traitorous. A sharp pull in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with memory. God help me, he's been the star of my wet dreams more times than I want to admit; I want him even now, even like this. I hate that. I clamp down hard on the feeling, like slamming a door on a draft. Not now. Not him. Not when my son is missing.
Massimo's gaze flicks over me once, fast and assessing, like he's taking inventory. I can't tell if he notices my reaction or if he's just cataloging threats the way he always does.
"Have you eaten?" he asks.
The question throws me more than anything else tonight.
"No." It confuses me enough to counter, "Have you?"
A pause. Fractional. Honest. "No."
I fold my arms. "Then don't start."
