Thirty thousand dollars.
My spine straightens.
The name isn't familiar. Northstar Advisory Group. The business doesn't ring any bells. I've seen so many like it; I have contacted them myself. Everyone thinks they can run a campaign, and sometimes it doesn't hurt to give an upstart a chance. You never know what ideas they might come up with. But we never started with thirty grand. Fifteen, maybe, to see if they were a good fit. Thirty is pocket change for an established company, one we've done business with several times, but not for a first timer. I'm glad I started from the beginning now, so I know I haven't seen that name before.
I switch the screen to Google and search. The company closed eight years ago, two years after we paid them. Ten… my spine tingles and I know I'm on to something. Ten years is the magic number. I click on more details about the company, and my pulse races. The owner's name remains: Sean Carpenter. I stare at the screen, then at the name. Sean. Yes, that Sean. My father's bodyguard. My breath leaves me in a shallow rush. I toggle back to the other screen, to the payment that was made one day before Massimo disappeared. Thirty thousand dollars.
That's not a campaign expense. That's not maintenance. That's not printing costs or consulting fees. That's payoff money. That's shut-up-and-go-away money. My hands start to shake as I lean back into the couch, and the room tilts slightly around me. Thirty thousand dollars to make a man vanish.
Is that all I was worth to him?
Is that allwewere worth?
I picture Massimo's face from the photo booth, soft, in love, unguarded. I picture his smile. The way he looked at me like I was something sacred.
And my father?
My father would absolutely write that check.
Clean. Quiet. Efficient.
Did he buy Massimo off?
My chest caves in. That would explain how he knew who Amauri's father was, even though I never told him. The tears come before I can stop them, hot, humiliating, unstoppable. I clutch the laptop to my chest like it might anchor me, but it doesn't help. The sob that tears out of me is ugly and raw and ten years too late.
Thirty thousand dollars.
To stay away.
To disappear.
To leave me standing alone on that balcony, waiting for a man who was paid off. My body curls in on itself as exhaustion finally wins. The wine bottle slips from my fingers, rolling empty and harmlessly against the couch. The laptop tilts, the screen dims as my eyes close. I cry myself to sleep with one thought burning itself into my bones: If my father did this?—
If he stole Massimo from me?—
Then I will destroy whatever he used to do it.
And I won't accept money as an answer.
The jet humsbeneath my feet, steady and inevitable, as we climb out over the desert. Venezuela. The word sits wrong in my mouth. The Venezuelans don't steal children. They move product. They flood markets. They burn through cities and leave rot behind. Kidnapping a senator's grandson is sloppy. Loud. It invites attention they don't want.
I drum my fingers against the table and take a sip of coffee. I need to be clearheaded for this. There are only two explanations: either the Venezuelans are desperate, or someone pointed them. Someone who wanted leverage.
I lean back in the seat, my jaw so tight it hurts, and my fingers drum faster before I still them. My thoughts drift where they shouldn't, away from strategy, away from logistics.
To him.
My son.
I should have asked her for a picture.
The thought irritates me more than it should. I won't ask Jenna for anything. Not after what she did. Not after ten years of silence wrapped around a lie I never got the chance to confront. Curiosity wins where pride shouldn't. I pull my phone out and type their names. Jenna Whitford. Amauri Whitford. I expect curated smiles. Political gloss. Carter's shadow all over it. What I don't expect is the punch to the chest. Amauri's face fills the screen, mid-laugh, caught off guard. Dark hair. My nose.My mouth when I forget to control it. Something sharp and unmistakable in his eyes.
Mine.
I go still.
Fuck.
