"You don't get to look at him," my tone is still soft, deceivingly so.
Fear finally arrives—pure, undiluted—as he starts picking up that I'm not here to rescue him.
"Who are you?" he whispers.
I lean down until we're eye level, close enough that he can see there's no anger left in me for him. Just judgment.
"You should have died the moment you touched what wasn't yours." I let that sink in, but it only confuses him further. He's clueless. "I'm the man who ordered you hit on the field." Hisbreath stutters. "I'm the reason you're still alive," I continue. "And the reason your life is about to become very small." I straighten. "My name is Massimo Manetti."
He recognizes the name instantly. It hits him late, but when it does, it's catastrophic. The color drains from his face.
"Oh," he breathes.
"Yes," I nod. "That's usually the moment."
Carter still doesn't understand. I can see it in the way his brow furrows, the way he keeps searching my face for a role he can recognize.
"But why would you come for me?" he asks, voice thin. "Save me?"
I almost smile.
"Who said I saved you?" I reply calmly. "Your wife asked me to save our son." The word our hits him like a slap. "You were just… part of the package," I continue. "Collateral."
His mouth opens, disbelief flickers into something closer to panic.
"You're lucky," I add, stepping back just enough to gesture at the tray in front of him. "I haven't quite decided what to do with you yet."
I tap the edge of the plate. Then the glass. "So eat. Drink." I let my gaze settle on him, heavy and unblinking. "Until I do decide, you'll keep breathing. "But make no mistake—" I straighten, towering over him again. "You're on my time now."
The words sink in slowly. His hands hover uselessly above the food, appetite gone, power stripped bare.
My phone rings. Perfect timing. I turn away from Whitford without another glance, done for now. Whatever comes next for him can wait. "Enzo?"
"Boss," he greets. His voice is tight. Focused. "We got a name. The Mexican talked."
Of course he did.
"The Oven never fails." It has never failed. Pain, fire, the prospect of a slow death… it works miracles. I move toward the back of the cabin, away from Carter, away from ears that don't deserve context. There's a pause.
"Enzo?" I stop. "Spit it out."
"The Oven might have failed us this time."
I still. "What?"
"It wasn't the Oven who made him talk." His next words give me a chill. "It was Jenna."
Silence slams down so hard I feel it in my chest. "…what?"
"She got him to talk," Enzo continues. "She didn't touch him. She didn't threaten. She just—" He exhales. "She broke him."
I hear admiration in his voice. That stops me for a fraction of a second, because Enzo doesn't give out that kind of compliment freely or often, but then undiluted fury flares so fast it almost blinds me. "Why the fuck was Jenna anywhere near that place?" I snap. "Of all the?—"
"Listen to me," Enzo cuts in, calm but firm. He explains what happened. What she did. What she said. The name. The cartel. Joaquín Beltrán. La Orden del Norte. I don't interrupt. When he finishes, I'm standing very still.
"Jenna?" I'm speechless. Not surprised. Not really. In my mind's eye, green eyes inside a bloodied face stare up at me, defiant, strong. She's leaning over a dead body, holding a spike in her hands, dripping blood. Her stance tells me she won't hesitate to attack me next.
"She handled it," Enzo's words cut through the fog of memory. I'd almost forgotten how strong she can be. How unbendable. "Better than most men I know."
