He's serious about it. I nod. Because my being taken is not in the best interest of my son.
We leave through a private elevator, then through the casino floor, which is, like always, packed with people. I notice six men are guarding me now, including Max. Max's eyes shift from left to right, then right to left. Never resting. He takes in everything around us, leaving nothing to chance.
The SUV is already waiting by the valet entrance, engine running, doors opening before we reach it. Two cars fall in behind us as we pull away from the casino's artificial glow. Seconds later, Vegas blurs past the tinted windows, neon bleeds into concrete, thins, then disappears altogether.
The city gives way to industrial nothing. The drive is quiet. Nobody says a word as I stare out the window at the darkening sky. The day is finally coming to an end. I wish I could just roll up in bed, pull the sheets over my head, and forget everything. But that's a luxury a mother doesn't have. Not when her child is in danger.
The building appears without ceremony. Low. Squat. Forgettable. A crematorium. My stomach drops.
"Oh," I murmur before I can stop myself. "Fuck."
Max doesn't look at me. "They call it the Oven."
Of course they do. Genius, really. Heat. Finality. No questions asked. But still… fuck. The SUV stops. The air outside is still warm, heavy with the faint metallic tang of ash and old smoke. We walk through a nondescript door into a nondescript room. A man stands by another door, leading into the back. His hands are folded in front of him like a man standing guard at a church or a slaughterhouse.
He's bigger than I imagined. Broader. And his face, oh my God, his face. It takes effort not to flinch. Scars map him like a history written in flesh. Not one clean line, but many. Burns. Knife work. Damage layered on damage until the man underneath feels almost secondary to what's been done to him.
He watches me carefully as I approach. Waiting for something. Before I can step past him, he lifts a hand.
"Enzo."
I assumed so, but I take it anyway; it looks like manners matter here. "Jenna." Which he probably already knows, too.
"Before I let you in there," he states calmly in a surprisingly gentle voice, "I need to know you have the stomach for this."
I don't rush to answer. I force myself not to look away from his face, not to soften my gaze, not to offer pity or revulsion or polite avoidance. I've worked with disfigured people before, men and women broken by accidents, illness, violence. I learned early that most of them wanted one thing above all else: to be seen as normal. To be spared the stare.
Enzo is not one of those men. He wants me to look. He wants to see whether I'll blink. So I let my eyes travel—slowly, deliberately—over the minefield of his face. I don't rush it. I don't apologize with my expression. I don't pretend not to notice. Then I look back at his eyes.
"I'm probably not cut from the same material as you," I choose my words carefully. "But a mother can take a lot of shit when her child is in danger." I pause, then add, softer but steadier, "More than she ever thought she could."
Something shifts. It's subtle. A minute easing in his posture. The smallest nod, almost imperceptible, like a lock clicking open.
"Alright," Enzo says.
He steps aside and gestures toward the door.
"Welcome," he adds dryly, "to the part of the world most people pretend doesn't exist."
The door opens. Heat breathes out to meet me. I step inside. I thought I was prepared. I really did. I'd braced myself for blood, for screams, for something crude and cinematic. This is worse.
The smell hits first, burned flesh, melted plastic, scorched fabric. It crawls into my throat and sits there, thick and oily, refusing to move. My eyes sting. My stomach flips hard enough that I swallow twice just to stay upright. The ovens dominate the space. Wide open. Roaring. Fire rolls inside them like a livingthing, hungry, relentless, utterly indifferent. The heat presses against my skin immediately; sweat blooms at my temples, under my arms, along my spine. The air hums. The flames breathe. There is something horrifyingly beautiful about it.
The way the fire moves. The way it consumes without judgment. Mesmerizing. Hypnotic. I hate myself a little for noticing.
Then I see him. The man on the stretcher is tied above a corpse. The living man's chest heaves violently, and sweat pours down his face, soaking his shirt. His wrists strain uselessly against restraints.
His feet, my breath stutters. Gone. Not entirely, but close enough. Melted leather fused to skin. Plastic embedded where bone should be. Blackened flesh blistering upward, angry and wet. The damage crawls higher than I expect; the heat has done its work slowly. Methodically.
His eyes are what threaten to undo me. Not monstrous. Not cruel. He's terrified. Wild, frantic eyes dart between us; his pupils are blown wide, reflecting the raw animal panic of someone who understands exactly what's happening and knows he can't stop it.
He's young. Too young. Early twenties, maybe. Barely more than a boy. Pity wallows up inside me, but then I think of the panic I felt, the panic Amauri felt and is likely still feeling. And everything inside me locks. My pulse roars in my ears.
"If you want to leave," Enzo offers quietly beside me, his voice steady and professional, "no one will think less of you."
I shake my head. The movement is small, but it's final. I step forward instead. The heat intensifies immediately, licking at my skin, soaking my clothes. Sweat beads along my upper lip. My insides feel like ice and fire at the same time, cold dread wrapped in burning fury.
This man helped take Amauri. This man stood in my home. This man is part of why my son cried himself to sleep somewhere far away from me. And, up close, all I see is fear. Not innocence. Not absolution. Just fear. I stop a few feet away. Close enough that he can see my face clearly.
