But I am bothered. I am bothered that this man is part of the group of people who came into my house and took my son. What gave them the right to do that?
I straighten, the pacing inside me slowing into something sharper.
"Where is he?" I ask again.
Max exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. Not dismissive. Careful. "Jenna?—"
"I'm not asking to hurt him," I cut in. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. "I'm asking where he is."
A beat. He studies me like he's reassessing the terrain. Like he's deciding whether I'm glass or steel.
Finally, "Not here, at a safe place. Enzo's handling it."
I have no idea who Enzo is, but I assume he must be more important than Max. I also have no idea of the hierarchy in the mafia, so I don't know what title Max or anybody else holds. I'm more of a corporate kind of girl.
It doesn't matter; what matters is, "Is he being questioned?"
Max hesitates just long enough to be an answer. "Yes."
I nod once. That confirms what I already suspected. Before I even know what I'm requesting, the words pop out of my mouth, "Take me to him."
Max's head snaps up. "No." It's automatic. Reflex. Protective. He looks almost apologetic about it. He backpaddles, "This isn't something you should see. It's not?—"
"—clean?" I finish for him. "Comfortable? Easy to watch?"
His jaw tightens. "It's not for you."
I meet his eyes. Hold them once again. "He might have been part of the group that took my son," I explain quietly in case he didn't get the memo. "I think that makes it very much for me."
He doesn't argue immediately. That tells me everything.
"I won't interfere," I continue. "I won't touch him. I won't make this harder. I just want to be there."
"To do what?" he asks.
"To look at him," I say. "And ask him one question."
Max rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through his control. "Jenna?—"
"I almost got taken today," I interrupt. "Again. While I was shopping for clothes."
That lands.
"They didn't miss," I add. "They just didn't get me."
Silence stretches between us. I can see the calculations behind his eyes now. The ones Massimo taught him. Risk. Fallout. Control. Damage. He exhales. "I'll call Enzo. But if he says no?—"
"I'll accept it," I lie.
Max doesn't look convinced. But he nods once and pulls out his phone, stepping just outside the door. I stand there alone, heart hammering, my reflection staring back at me from the dark glass. This isn't about revenge. Not yet. This is about reclaiming something they took when they decided I was leverage instead of a mother. And if Massimo's world thinks I'm going to stay upstairs, wrapped in glass and silence, while the men who hurt my son talk in rooms below… they don't know what a mother is capable of.
I hear Max's voice, low and tense, through the door. A pause. Then another. When he comes back in, his expression has changed.
"Enzo says… five minutes," he tells me. "You don't speak unless he clears it."
"That's fair," I agree.
He searches my face one last time. "Once we walk out that door, you will do whatever I tell you to do? And if I think it's too dangerous to move you right now, we come back here."
