Massimo's eyes darken, his tone merciless. "Then we use it. And we get Amauri back."
I straighten, spine locking into place. "Fine," I agree. "I'll look."
He nods once. No triumph. No gratitude. Just war, advancing.
As he turns back toward the exit, I realize something chillingly clear: He didn't ask me to make myself useful. He assumed I would. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel deployed. I feel valued.
The next day…
Enzo doesn't sit until I tell him to. That alone tells me he already knows this isn't a normal meeting. The office is quiet, the blinds are half drawn, Vegas is still pretending it's just another morning. I stare at the strip outside. By daylight, the city looks like a beautiful whore without makeup. No shadow. No illusion. Just harsh angles and exhaustion you're not supposed to notice. Cracks in the paint. Stale air. Regret clinging to everything like smoke that never quite clears.
This is why we build without windows. Why we run tunnels under the city.
Why we dim the lights, blur the edges, and keep the clocks out of sight. People can't see reality and keep losing money. They need darkness. They need noise. They need to be drunk enough on light and sound and promise to forget that the magic is manufactured.
So we keep them inside. We keep them distracted. We keep them wanting.
Vegas only works if you never let it wake up. I stand at the glass anyway, watching the city stripped bare by the sun, and think about my son somewhere far away, exposed to men who don't bother with illusion at all.
I don't care if this city falters while I'm gone.
Illusions can be rebuilt.
Blood cannot.
Enzo knows me well enough to sit in the silence until I break it. "I'm going to Venezuela."
He doesn't blink for a few seconds. "Venezu-fucking-ela?" he curses. "What the hell for?"
"I have to get my son," I state simply. The words hang there, heavy, undeniable.
Enzo frowns. Just slightly. "Your… son?"
I watch the way the pieces shift behind his eyes, rearranging themselves into something that finally makes sense. Kingsley. The helicopter. The boy.
"Oh," he says quietly. Then, "Fuck me."
"Yeah," I agree. "My son."
He drags a hand down his face, exhales hard. "Kingsley's grandson is?—"
"Mine."
Silence detonates between us.
"That's why," Enzo says slowly. Not a question. "That's why this isn't negotiable."
"Gabe's already moving," I fill him in. "Boots on the ground. Intel. I'll be in and out. Two days. Max."
"No, you don't want—," Enzo snaps. He reins it in fast, but the damage is done. "This will send the wrong message. You disappear now, and every vulture in this city will smell blood."
"I won't be disappearing."
"You'll be out of the country," he points out sharply. "That's the same thing."
I lean back against my desk, grabbing the headrest of my chair. Calm. Deliberate. "I have to get my son, Enzo."
Enzo exhales hard, scrubs a hand over his face. "I'll go."
