The board is finally making sense. The doubled perimeter. The rotations. The nervous consolidation. Men who believe walls keep them safe always forget what's beneath their feet.
"Then we stop circling each other," I propose.
I look between them—Conti, DeSantis, Oksana—voice cool, final. "I don't care who claims which corpse. We can argue about spoils and grudges after my son is safe and their leverage is dust."
Conti nods once. "You get your boy. We get answers. And blood."
Oksana lifts her glass again. "Efficient. I like it. Let's retrieve the child and remove the men who thought this was clever."
I stare at her. Longer this time. And—damn it—impressed.
"…Fine," I mutter. "I'll take the help."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know the truth of it. Men like me don't share vengeance. We don't divide it. And we sure as hell don't forget who put hands on our blood. Aurelio and Silvestre didn't just cross me. They took my son. That kind of debt doesn't get negotiated. It gets erased. Not later. Not diplomatically. Completely.
But that reckoning can wait. For now, we're aligned, temporary allies with overlapping targets and a shared deadline. Tonight, we get inside. Tonight, we take back what was stolen and burn their leverage to ash. After that?
We'll see whose war this really was.
And whose it becomes.
It's really simple.I walk into the antechamber and tell Max, "I forgot something."
He studies me for a beat, doesn't ask what, and nods. He gestures toward the elevator, and just like earlier, two more guards join us, making the spacious area that wasn't meant for three linebackers suddenly feel cramped.
This time, the casino level doesn't hit me as hard as earlier. I still register the noise, but ignore it, just like theCocktails? Cocktails?calls from the waitresses. I'm also prepared to sidestep the drunken asshole we encounter, sparing him the humiliation of being manhandled by one of the guards, not that he notices.
The boutique is still quiet, immaculate, and insulated from the chaos of the casino outside. Soft lighting. Plush carpet. Sales associates who know when to disappear. My eyes scan the shelves and rows of clothing racks until they land on Marianne. She's browsing silk scarves like she belongs here, fingers trailing over fabric with idle familiarity. Polished. Composed. Effortless in a way that makes my teeth itch. She looks up at exactly the right moment, surprise blooming across her face just slowly enough to feel practiced.
"Jenna," she says warmly. "What a coincidence."
I smile back. The kind you learn young. Pleasant. Unrevealing. "Marianne. Small world."
I feel Max stiffen, but ignore him as I walk over to Marianne, and we embrace each other, pretending surprise, pretending this isn't deliberate. She takes me in quickly: the clothes, the posture, the absence of strain. I do the same. She looks no different than always. Untouched by consequence. Her gaze flicks, just briefly, to Max.
"Your security?" she asks, chin lifting in his direction.
"Yes," I reply easily. "Massimo insists."
I watch her eyes at the name. Just for a fraction of a second, something sharp flashes there, interest, not surprise.
"Of course he does," she murmurs. Then adds, "I'm so sorry about Amauri and Carter."
The names land carefully, like she practiced the order. Child first. Husband second. Optics before emotion.
"I want you to know," she continues, lowering her voice just enough to feel confidential, "that I'm doing everything I can."
I let my shoulders soften. Just a little. Enough to invite her closer.
"Do you know who took them?" I need to know.
Her answer comes too quickly. "Yes." She nods once, then glances around the boutique, eyes flicking to the mirrors, the sales associates, the corners, like she's worried we're being watched. "The Venezuelan Cartel."
This confirms what Massimo told me.
"Your father is talking with them," she adds quietly.
The words slide under my ribs and twist.
