I still have fires burning elsewhere. Whitford is secured in one of my warehouses. Medical staff on standby, not for comfort, for longevity. He'll live as long as I need him to. No longer.
Enzo's called a meeting. Gabe is digging into Bello. Threads are being pulled, loyalties weighed, old names dragged into the light whether they like it or not. Alessio is checking the streets for word of Joaquin. Damiano is vetting the employees at the club where Mia was killed. The noose is tightening; Joaquín just doesn't know it yet.
I turn toward the door. I should leave now. I should go to Enzo. To the meeting. To the war still unfolding outside this room. This moment is theirs.
Then she looks up. Just once. Her lips move without sound.Thank you. Something in my chest cracks. Not softly. Not cleanly. Ten years of silence don't evaporate with gratitude. They sharpen. I stop. Slowly, I turn back. I look her dead in the eyes and throw ten years of fury into her face. "You knew."
Jenna stiffens. Her hand stills in Amauri's hair. "Knew what?"
"You knew I was alive." With every word, I take a step forward. If she had any sense, she would run. "You knew I hadn't disappeared. Bello came to you. He told you I couldn't come because I was hurt."
The words land like a grenade. Her breath catches. Just a fraction. Enough.
"And you still married him," I continue, heat bleeding into my tone despite myself. "You still let another man put his name on my son."
Amauri shifts, frowning. He pushes himself upright, half-awake now.
"Massimo," Jenna says, warning threaded into my name.
Too late.
"You don't get to look at me like I abandoned you," I snap. "You don't get to act like I left, when you were the one who chose?—"
"Stop." It's not her. It's him.
Amauri is fully awake now, standing on the couch between us, small fists clenched, jaw set with an expression far too familiar. "Don't say that to my mummy."
The room freezes. I look at him. I don't see any fear in his expression; he's not shrinking from me. There is just plain defiance. Pure and bright and untrained.
"Sit down," I say automatically.
"No," he says, planting his feet wider. "You're being mean."
The word shouldn't hit like it does.
Jenna reaches for him. "Amauri?—"
"She didn't do anything wrong," he insists, his voice shaking but steady. "She came for me. She always comes."
Silence swells, thick and merciless. I feel it then, something I didn't expect. Underneath the anger. Guilt. This isn't a fight that should be waged in front of a kid. It's too late now, though. The war has started; I can see it in the fury burning in her eyes. I swallow, jaw tightening, forcing my hands to unclench at my sides.
"Stop." This time, it's Jenna who gives the command. "Both of you."
Her gaze locks on me, unflinching, the kind of look that doesn't ask; it ends things. Then she turns to Amauri, her expression softening without losing authority.
"Amauri," her tone is gentle. He looks up at her immediately. "Do me a favor and go into that room." She nods toward theguest bedroom she's been using. "Turn on the TV so Mummy and Da—" she hesitates, just a fraction, "—Massimo can talk. Grown-up talk, okay?"
Amauri doesn't seem to notice the stumble, but I do. He nods, obedient but alert, already halfway to the room. The pause is small. Almost nothing. And it tells me more than she ever could with words. This isn't new for him. The way he moves. The way he accepts it without fear or confusion. This is routine. Arguments redirected. Tension managed. A child who knows when adults need to be separated from their worst impulses.
Which means she and Whitford fought like this. Often enough that Jenna learned exactly what to say. Often enough that Amauri learned exactly what to do. The realization lands heavy. Not because she handled it wrong. But because she handled it well. And because it means I wasn't the first man she had to protect our son from.
"No, wait. I'm leaving. I'm not doing this here." Amauri pauses at my words. "Not in front of him. Not now."
At least that instinct still works. Amauri watches me closely, suspicious but curious. Like he's filing me away. I meet his gaze. "We'll talk later," I tell him. Not her. Him.
He nods once. Serious. Evaluating.
I turn and leave before I say something I can't take back. Behind me, I hear her exhale, shaky, furious, alive. I refuse to look at her as I stride toward the door. I hear her whisper something to Amauri, but I ignore it. I just need to get out of here. Outside, Max takes one look at my expression and nods at one of the men to call the elevator. The door behind me clicks open. Jenna.
