"No," I agree. "It's a convergence."
Conti brings infrastructure. DeSantis brings execution. Together, they don't destabilize cities; they surgically remove what doesn't belong. I look back at the compound on the screen. At the layers of security. At the careful arrogance of it. Then I think about what isn't happening.
Valverde didn't send anyone to the airport. No welcoming committee. No armored convoy. No public show of alliance. Conti and DeSantis landed quietly and disappeared into the city like men who weren't expected or wanted. And they're not staying anywhere that matters.
Second-rate hotel. Mid-tier security. The kind of place you choose when you don't want to be seen, and you don't want anyone mistaking you for a guest. That's not hospitality. That's distance.
Valverde keeps allies close. Enemies closer. But outsiders? He makes a point of reminding them whose ground they're standing on. He didn't do that this time.
Which tells me two things.
First: Conti and DeSantis didn't come at his invitation.
Second: Valverde knows they're here.
But he doesn't want them under his roof.
I don't say it out loud yet. I don't need to. Gabe's eyes narrow in the same direction my thoughts are going. I sit back, steepling my fingers, watching the power cycle blink again on the screen. Ninety seconds. Like a heartbeat.
"If they were negotiating," I continue, "they'd be housed like kings. If they were partners, Valverde would be showing them off."
"And if they were targets," Gabe finishes, "they'd stay invisible."
I nod once. That explains the hotel. The silence. The separation. Conti doesn't put himself in a position where he can be controlled. DeSantis doesn't sleep under the same roof as the man he might have to kill. Which means Valverde isn't just holding my son, he's pissed off a lot of other people. I glance back at the compound on the screen. At the power cycle. At the unseen door we haven't located yet.
"So," Gabe states carefully, "they're not here for you."
"No," I reply. "But we're about to be in each other's way."
And that makes this dangerous. Because men like Conti and DeSantis don't go to war unless someone makes a mistake large enough to attract predators. I intend to make sure that mistake isn't mine. I don't like sharing a battlefield. But if Conti and DeSantis think they walked into Caracas to run the board, they're about to learn whose game this actually is.
At some point,I must have drifted off to sleep again on the couch—it's way too comfortable. Because I don't ease into panic. I wake up in it. It's there the moment my eyes open, coiled tight in my chest, squeezing before I can even draw a full breath. Amauri.
The name is a pulse, a drumbeat, a scream I keep swallowing down because screaming doesn't get sons back. Before I even have a plan, I'm up and through the penthouse, swinging the door to the antechamber open and staring into six pairs of eyes. Six men who are built like linebackers, wearing the expressions of killers. Normally, I'd be intimidated; today, I'm not. I'm far too furious.
"Where is he?" I demand, voice already sharp, already past polite. My eyes level on Max, the only one I know in the group. He looks up from where he's standing near the elevator door, massive and immovable, like panic is something he's trained to absorb. "Morning to you, too, ma'am."
"Don't," I snap. "Don't do that. Where is Massimo?"
He exhales slowly, like he expected this. "He's not available."
My hands curl into fists. "That's not an answer."
"You know where he went," Max says carefully.
"No, I don't." I fire back. "I want to talk to him. Now."
"Jenna—"
"No," I cut in, stepping closer. "You don't get to soften it. You don't get to buffer me. He left me here with no information, no timeline, and a whole lot of silence. I want to know where he is, what he's doing, and why no one seems to think I deserve to be told."
Max holds my gaze. I see the calculation there, the judgment of how much truth I can handle without breaking. It only makes me angrier.
"He said you'd do this," Max finally allows. "Pace. Spiral. Try to insert yourself into things that aren't safe."
"That's convenient," I reply coldly. "Did he also tell you I'd be right?"
His jaw tightens. That's answer enough. A beat passes, a beat during which we measure each other to see who folds first.
