Panic cuts through the drugs when I think of her. Jenna alone. Jenna thinking I'd vanished. Jenna thinking I'd left her without a word. I force my throat to work. Tell Bello to go to her. Find her. Make sure she is safe. Make sure she knows I'm alive. Make sure she doesn't think I disappeared. He doesn't argue. Doesn't question the timing. Doesn't remind me we were at war. He just nods. Solid. Loyal. Reassuring.
"I'll handle it," he promises.
And then he leaves the safest place in the city to walk straight into uncertainty because I asked him to.
I survived on that. Clawed my way back from death believing she would be there at the end of it. Believing that when I stood again, rebuilt and breathing, she'd know I hadn't abandoned her. I built my recovery on that promise. And he built my war on it.
I fill Enzo in. He grunts on the other end. Unconvinced. "That might be part of it, but there's more."
"I'll have Gabe look into it," I assure him and end the call.
When I turn back, Amauri is still asleep, curled into the couch, his breathing slow and steady. Safe. For now. Behind him, Whitford stares at nothing, finally quiet. Somewhere between the two of them—between what I lost and what I just got back—I feel it. A shift. Jenna wasn't supposed to be part of this world. But the world didn't give a shit about what she was supposed to be.
I look down at my son again, commit the sight to memory. Then I straighten. Because whatever game is unfolding—whatever ghosts are stepping out of the dark—it's no longer just about territory. It's about family, which makes it lethal.
I find Gabe a few rows down, half-turned in his seat, phone low in his hand. His jaw is locked tight, attention split betweenthe plane and whatever obsession currently owns him. He looks up when I stop beside him.
"She mean a lot to you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
I sit. He doesn't bother hiding the screen. A pretty brunette is stretched out on a couch, legs tucked beneath her, watching television. Comfortable. Safe. Another man's arm is draped around her shoulders, familiar in the way only long practice allows. Domestic.
"She's happy," Gabe sounds wistful, closing the image with his thumb. A rare, unguarded softness crosses his mouth. "I can't take that from her."
I study him. "You could."
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp, flaring. Dangerous. "I know I could. I can do a lot of things." He pauses. Then adds, a note colder, "But I'm not a bastard who destroys other people's lives for sport."
Not yet, hangs unspoken between us. Gabe has always drawn his lines carefully. That's what makes him lethal. He doesn't cross them by accident; he steps over them when he decides the cost is worth it. I glance back at the dark screen in his hand. The woman. The man beside her. The life he's pretending not to want.
"Careful," I tell him. "Men like us don't stay spectators forever."
His mouth curves. Not a smile. A promise. "I know."
Gabe is a complicated man. The problem is that complications in our world always collect interest.
"We got the name," I change the subject. "Of the Mexican cartel that's orchestrated the abduction. Joaquín Beltrán. La Orden del Norte."
His eyes sharpen. "Ambitious bastard."
I nod, then lower my voice. "Enzo feels Bello is acting strange. I need you to dig. Quietly. Dig into everything. Past,money, loyalties, lies. I want to know what he eats for breakfast and who taught him to lie."
Gabe nods once. No questions. No hesitation. That's how it's always been between us.
Bello has been with us since the beginning. Before the casinos. Before the polish. Before Vegas was mine instead of something I was going to conquer with blood and patience. He bled for this family. He built routes, buried bodies, and closed doors that needed closing. I trusted him with men, with money, with my back.
Trust like that isn't given lightly. And it's not revoked gently. Gabe understands that, too. Just like he understands that Enzo wouldn't put word out like that lightly.
I rake a hand through my hair, jaw tight. If Bello is compromised in any way, then this isn't just betrayal. It's treason. It means he looked me in the eye, every day, and chose to lie. That kind of betrayal doesn't just hurt. It costs.
"I'll find it," Gabe says quietly. "One way or another. It'll stay between you, me, and Enzo."
We both understand what's at stake. If this is nothing, it stays nothing. If it's something…
I don't want to believe Bello is dirty. Men like him don't turn easily. He has as much to lose as anyone else, if not more: status, protection, legacy. But Enzo has never been wrong. Not once. When his instincts flare, it's because something underneath is already rotting. If Bello is rotting, I won't hesitate. History doesn't buy mercy. It just makes the punishment personal.
Finally, I pour myself a bourbon and find a spot alone, at the rear of the plane. The Stagg's burn steadies me. I sit, watching Amauri sleep a few feet away, curled into a blanket like he's always belonged there. Like the world hasn't already tried to break him.
My son.
