I'm almost grateful DeSantis, Conti, and Oksana are here to finish the Valverdes. Let them bleed. Let them scream. I have other fires to put out, fires that will scorch entire supply chains and leave nothing standing where confidence used to live. Something else rattles beneath the rage and strategy; it settles heavy and undeniable. Jenna.
I try to frame it cleanly. Rationally. She's the mother of my son. That should be enough. It isn't. The truth presses in whether I want it or not. The thought of her being taken—of her being touched by men who would use her like leverage, like currency—does something violent to me. Something that hasnothing to do with legacy or bloodlines and everything to do with possession that I don't want to name.
I don't say it out loud. I don't let myself dwell. But the realization is there, sharp and immovable: she means more to me than I'm willing to admit. Which means that whoever is orchestrating this—whoever thought they could test my borders by reaching for her—they didn't just declare war on my empire. They signed their own death warrant.
We descend the stairs. The basement waits.
And somewhere far from here, someone just made the worst mistake of their life.
We kill the night vision and switch to headlights. The beam cuts through the dark, and the smell hits immediately. Damp metal. Old blood. Rust. Something sour, a residual of ruined humanity that never fully leaves a place once it's been soaked in pain. Humiliation clings to the air like a residue you can't scrub out. The kind that seeps into stone and waits. My jaw tightens. This is where they're keeping him. The thought lands heavy and immediate, like a blow to the chest.
My son.
These fucktards dragged a child into this place. My child. I don't need to be told what happened here. I recognize it the way you recognize a language you were raised speaking. This is a place where men learned how much a body could take before the mind followed. DeSantis walks ahead of us like a man entering a grave he intends to desecrate. Whatever drives him, it's not business; it's personal.
. Silvestre trails behind, quiet now. Smaller. He doesn't run. He knows better.
At the bottom, the space opens up into a wide room carved from stone and cruelty. Cabinets line the walls, too many of them, too orderly. The floor slopes subtly toward a drain at the center, stained dark despite years of scrubbing. A rope hangsfrom the ceiling, frayed at the ends, swaying slightly in the stale air.
DeSantis points toward a row of doors along one wall. "Which one, old man?"
I don't take my eyes off them. Because one of those doors is between me and my son. And nothing in this world is going to survive standing in that space much longer. Silvestre points. I don't look at him. I shoulder past him and kick the door open. The stench hits first. Rot. Sweat. Fear. Bleach layered over blood like someone tried—and failed—to erase what happened here. It claws its way down my throat, settles behind my eyes.
Inside, two shapes hover in the dim light. One man, barely alive. Sunken cheeks. Bruised wrists. His lips are split and dry, his breathing is shallow, like every inhale might be his last. I recognize him instantly ,even before Oksana exclaims, "That's Carter Whitford."
The way the man looks, it's more like she's naming a corpse. Satisfaction burns through me. Years ago, I tried—unsuccessfully—to have him killed. Instead, he earned himself a punishment that some might call harder than death. Still, it irritates the fuck out of me that he lived. And yes, it infuriates me that it's him Jenna married. But seeing him like this, here, now, it almost settles the old score. Almost.
He takes second place in no time, because beside him, holding his hand, sits a boy. My boy. He's huddled on the floor beside the man who isn't his father, dirt smeared across his face, shoulders tight, eyes too old for his age. He doesn't cry. Doesn't scream. Doesn't reach. He just watches us. Cautiously and assessing. Like a child who has learned the hard way that attention can be dangerous. In stark contrast to Carter, who proves he's alive by groaning and mumbling words that sound like pleas. I tune him out. My entire world narrows to the boy.My son. My chest tightens so suddenly that it steals my breath as the realization hits: he doesn't know me.
Of course he doesn't.
I turn to Conti because if I don't speak, I might do something irrevocable. "Do you need backup?"
"We've got it," he answers without hesitation. "Go. Get your people out."
I nod once. Respect passes between us, silent, mutual. Two men who understand exactly what it costs to stand in places like this and still walk away breathing.
"Good to see you again, Conti," and, surprising myself, I mean the words. "Let me know when you're in Vegas." My gaze flicks to Oksana. "It's been an honor, Metelitsa."
She inclines her head, sharp and knowing. My men are already moving, two of them on Whitford, efficient, gentle only in comparison to what they could be. I step past them. Toward Amauri.
His eyes track me as I approach, calculating, wary, intelligent in a way that hurts. Carefully, I lower myself so as not to scare him until I'm crouched at his level. I keep my hands visible. I keep my voice steady. I don't do gentle, haven't in a long time, but hearing my voice, I could almost call it that. "I'll take you to your mamma." The word tastes strange and right all at once. "What do you think?"
He blinks at me. No recognition. No relief. Just stunned silence. My heart breaks anyway. I remember the words I said earlier, laughing them off like they didn't matter.
Neither did I.
I reach out my hand, palm open. Not demanding. Not commanding. An invitation.
"Come on, little man," I say quietly. "Let's go home."
For a second, I think he won't. Then his hand lifts—shaking, filthy, brave—and slides into mine. The contact detonatessomething inside my chest. A sensation like nothing I've ever felt before. I close my fingers around his, careful. Protective. Absolute.
I stand and make my way to the door. My son's hand in mine. Whitford carried behind us. The door to the torture chamber closes on screams, on ghosts, on Silvestre Valverde. I don't look back. Because everything that matters is walking forward with me now. And anyone who stands between this child and me will not die quickly.
The penthouse is too quiet.No screams. No gunfire. No alarms. Just the hum of the city far below and the echo of my own pulse pounding in my ears. I pace, barefoot, back and forth. Too fast. Like if I stop moving, everything that almost happened will catch up to me. I almost got kidnapped.
Again.
