"Do you really believe," he asks calmly, "that if the full power of the United States government wanted drugs out of this country—if the DEA, the FBI, the military, every alphabet agency you can name actually wanted them gone—they would still be here?"
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. I close it. My mind whirls. Is he right?
"Borders are suggestions," he continues. "Ports are owned. Cartels don't move without permission. Nothing that big survives without protection."
I feel cold all over.
"Trust me, Sirena." His tone is not condescending, which makes it worse. "The men you vote for are the ones getting rich." My stomach twists. "And I'm fully on board," he adds, without shame, "with benefiting from the same system they pretend to fight."
Silence crashes down between us. I don't agree with him. I've always known my father could be cruel. Ambitious. Calculating. But I thought the crusades were real. That the causes meant something. That underneath the strategy, there was conviction. If that isn't true?—
I swallow. "My father?—"
"—has enemies," Massimo cuts in calmly. "And protection."
The words scrape.
"You don't know him," I deny. "He's difficult. He's cold. He's obsessed with appearances. But he's not corrupt. Not in the way you are thinking."
The word hangs between us. I'm not naïve about my father. He knew what Carter did to me. He knew. And he still pushed the wedding forward. For his campaign. For the optics. For control. I don't pretend that was kindness. But ambition isn't the same thing as corruption. My father truly believes in what he's fighting. Human trafficking. Drug cartels. The men who profit off addiction and broken girls. I've seen the files. The late-night strategy calls. The anger that isn't performative. He wants to stop it. He just believes the world is only saved by people ruthless enough to reshape it.
And sometimes, reshaping it requires collateral. I was collateral, I accepted that. What I can't accept, what I can't forgive, ever, is his willingness to sacrifice Amauri. Still,objectively, that doesn't make him corrupt. It makes him… an asshole. A very egocentric, egomaniacal asshole. Massimo studies me for a long moment. Not dismissive. Almost careful.
"I'm not saying he sold himself," he admits quietly. "I'm saying someone found a way to hold him still."
The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. "That's not the same thing."
"No," Massimo agrees. "It's worse."
I shake my head. "You're reaching."
"If I am," he challenges, "prove it."
That stops me. He steps closer—not crowding me, not touching—but close enough that I have to tilt my chin up.
"New York doesn't invest in politicians out of admiration," he continues. "They invest because they get something back. Silence. Timing. Restraint." My stomach twists. "And when a man with a clean public image becomes untouchable," Massimo continues, "it's usually because touching him would expose something."
He's giving me a challenge. "You're thinking my father is in the New York mafia's pocket. You want me to look and find out why?"
"Yes."
"You want me to investigate my father."
"See what he's protecting," Massimo reiterates.
I swallow.
"For Amauri," he adds.
The word lands differently now. Not as leverage. As alignment. I look away, jaw tight, thoughts racing. If someone has something on my father… if this isn't about money… if this is about reputation, or history, or a mistake buried deep enough to rot quietly… it would almost make sense that he's ready to sacrifice his grandson. Not to me. But to his fucked-up mind.
"What if there's nothing?" I argue purely on reflex, years of conditioning.
"Then we clear him," Massimo replies without hesitation. "And we remove anyone who thought our son was acceptable collateral."
My chest tightens with something I refuse to name.
"And if there is something?" I ask quietly.
