28. Jenna
Jenna
Despite the hour, the massive colonial home is illuminated like a commercial runway. Every single window on the ground floor blazes with yellow light.
Dominic shifts the transmission into park, killing the engine. He’s currently staring through the windshield with the grim, resigned expression of a man preparing to defuse an explosive device with a paperclip.
“Initial assessment,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and smoothing down the front of my cashmere sweater. “No smoke coming out of the windows. No visible police presence. The shouting appears muffled or contained. This might go easier than you think.”
Dominic drags a heavy hand down his face, letting out a breath that fogs the glass for a fraction of a second.
He turns to me, his dark eyes shadowed by exhaustion but softening the moment they meet mine.
“I should have left you in Chicago. You could be sleeping in our bed right now, completely insulated from this.”
“I sleep perfectly fine on private jets,” I correct him, retrieving my tailored blazer from the backseat. “Besides, I thrive on solving other people’s chaos. Let’s go work the problem together—just like Tokyo.”
A faint, incredulous laugh escapes his chest. He reaches across the center console, his large hand cupping the side of my neck. His thumb sweeps over my jaw, grounding me instantly.
I could catalog all the ways Dominic’s hands undo me—my non-negotiable favorite is like this, his thumb tracing the softest implausible line beneath my jaw, a micro-gesture that feels like anchoring and exposure at the same time.
I remember every instance it’s happened, the way some people can quote entire scenes of childhood movies. This is my entire archive.
“I seem to recall you taking the lead in Tokyo. You want to do that here?”
“God no.” I balk. “I was referring to how well we work together when we back each other up.” I should stop there, but my mouth wants to keep going. “I think that if I started bossing your family around this early in our relationship, we wouldn’t even make sixty days.”
“And we don’t want that, do we? This relationship is important to both of us.”
“Well, yes—” I start and abruptly clamp my lips together at the way his mouth curves in a sly grin. “Dominic.”
“Can’t take it back now. You just said I’m important to you.” He drops a quick kiss on my lips and releases me. “Let’s go.”
For a split second, I think of bolting—the preemptive urge to avoid emotional shrapnel is one of my few remaining survival instincts. Instead, I get out of the car and take his hand and walk with him toward whatever awaits us on the other side of that door.
The house smells like ground beef and spices. Dominic doesn’t even get to ring the bell before Helena opens the door, a dish towel in her hands and her eyes rubbed red. The sight of Dominic undoes and reassembles her in the same second.
“Mijo.” Then she sees me behind him and presses the towel to her mouth.
“You brought Jenna,” she says to Dominic, but she’s looking at me, and there is a whole sentence underneath it that I think only she and I can read: he’s never brought help before.
From the kitchen, Esteban’s voice reverberates down the hall. “—and I am telling you, Helena, if that boy had scratched the paint, THEN we would have a problem, but he did NOT scratch the paint, because he is a CRUZ, and Cruzes respect German engineering—”
Esteban rounds the corner mid-broadcast, sees his son, and deflates three sizes in one breath.
Then he sees me, and reinflates on pure hospitality.
“Mija! You came to see the circus.” He kisses both my cheeks like it isn’t three in the morning.
“I would offer you a tour, but the main attraction is impounded.”
“Dad.”
“Two-hundred-and-eighty-five dollars, they want. For eleven blocks of towing—”
“Dad.” Dominic puts a hand on his father’s shoulder, and I watch the volume come down a full bar. “It’s three a.m. Let’s sit, have some tea, and we’ll talk about how we’re gonna fix all of this. I promise, I’ll make it right for everyone.”
A stair creaks above us.
Dustin is standing halfway down in flannel pajamas and his Mets cap, which tells me he either sleeps in it or put it on to come face the firing squad. His arms are crossed. His chin is wobbling.
“Is everyone still mad?” he asks.
“Nobody’s mad enough to matter,” Dominic says.
“Hannah’s parents are mad. They want to keep me away from her.” His voice cracks on the last word, and the sound goes straight through me. “They can’t do that, right? Nicky? They can’t just—people can’t just decide that. I’m a grown-up.”
Dominic crosses the entry and climbs four stairs so they’re eye level.
“Nobody is separating you and Hannah,” he says. “I promise you.”
“You can’t promise—”
“Dusty,” Dominic says. “You know me. If I make a promise, I keep it. I’m not letting them split you two up. Whatever it takes, I’ll fix this.”
Dustin looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods. “OK, Nicky. I believe you.” Then he looks past Dominic to me. “Oh, hi, Jenny. Did you know I’m a criminal now?”
“I heard,” I say. “Ten in a twenty-five. Truly lawless.”
The corner of his mouth twitches for what I’d guess is the first time since this happened. “There was a line of cars,” he says, puffing out his chest, “because I was being safe.”
Dominic claps a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder, the solid thud echoing in the cavernous foyer. “Safety first. Always. Now, let’s get you back to bed. We’ll talk through everything in the morning so we’re ready for Thursday’s meeting.”
Dustin nods, casting one last anxious glance at the rest of us before turning to ascend the rest of the stairs. Dominic shoots me a look over his shoulder—a silent, loaded, You good?—and I give him a crisp, microscopic nod.
As soon as the upstairs landing swallows them, the heavy silence of the foyer presses down on me.
I slowly pivot to face Helena and Esteban and my confidence wobbles.
I’ve brokered nine-figure mergers without breaking a sweat, but standing in my husband’s childhood home, under the intense, dual scrutiny of his emotional parents, is an entirely different level of risk assessment.
“So,” I say, folding my hands neatly in front of my blazer. “Tea?”
Helena’s red-rimmed eyes soften, and she suddenly surges forward, wrapping me in a fierce, cinnamon-and-sugar-scented hug. I freeze, calculating the appropriate reciprocal squeeze ratio, before tentatively patting her back.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispers into my collarbone.
“It’s really no trouble,” I say, my voice perfectly level despite the fact I’m being submerged in the kind of maternal affection I can only dream of from my own mother. I adjust my grip, committing to a solid two-second squeeze before gently disengaging to maintain my composure.
Esteban gestures broadly toward the hallway, his theatrical flair entirely undiminished by the hour. “Come, come. To the kitchen. We’ll feed you.”
I follow them into their massive kitchen where trays of freshly baked empanadas line the granite counters. I immediately step in to help, navigating the organized chaos to locate mugs and prep the kettle for tea. It’s a small, manageable task that provides a much-needed anchor.
“I don’t know what we would do without him, Jenna,” Helena sighs, sliding a plate of warm, golden pastries toward me.
She wipes her hands on her apron, the adrenaline of the crisis visibly draining from her posture.
“Dustin gets so anxious. He spirals, and he won’t sleep.
He’ll pace the floor all night. No one else can reach him when he gets like that.
But Nicky . . . he always gets through to him. ”
Esteban nods solemnly, stirring honey into his mug. “It is true. He always knows exactly what to do. Always so calm, even when the rest of us are losing our minds.”
The observation aligns perfectly with my own findings. I always saw Dominic as a hurricane wrapped in a designer suit, but underneath, he’s the most structurally sound person I’ve ever met.
Heavy footsteps echo on the hardwood in the hall. Dominic enters the kitchen, his posture shifting from comforting brother to ruthless crisis manager. He pulls out a chair at the head of the oak table, sits down, and folds his large hands over the wood.
“OK,” he says, his eyes sweeping over his parents. “Dustin’s calm. Tell me everything we’re dealing with.”
Esteban clears his throat. “Legally, the officer cited him for impeding traffic and driving without a license. I confirmed it was a family vehicle and declined to make a theft complaint, so the report only reflects the traffic stop.”
I mentally log the data. Two traffic infractions. Easily negotiated with the right representation.
“The real problem is Round Hill House,” Helena interjects, twisting her dish towel into a tight knot.
“The program director called at midnight. They have strict safety protocols for their supported-independence tier. Dustin and Hannah left the grounds without signing out, bypassing the front desk and the evening residential advisor.”
“A breach of facility security,” I murmur, my corporate instincts kicking in automatically.
“Exactly,” Dominic says, his jaw locking tight. “Which gives Hannah’s parents all the ammunition they need.”
“They are terrified, Nicky,” Helena says pleadingly.
“They say if Round Hill cannot ensure Hannah’s physical safety—if Dustin can just wander off with her and gain access to a two-ton vehicle he isn’t legally cleared to operate—they will pull her from the program entirely.
They want to move her to a higher-supervision facility in upstate New York. ”
Dominic’s knuckles turn white where his hands are clasped over the oak table. “So it’s not just a schedule separation. It’s a forced relocation.”
“They’re calling it a ‘necessary care adjustment due to unmitigated risk factors,’” Esteban quotes bitterly.
“Bureaucratic nonsense,” I say, the words clipping sharply off my tongue.
The kitchen goes quiet, all three Cruzes looking at me.
I sit up straighter, pulling my phone from my blazer pocket.
“It’s a liability defense. Round Hill is terrified of a negligence lawsuit from Hannah’s parents, so they’re shifting the blame entirely onto Dustin to prove their facility protocols weren’t at fault. ”
Dominic’s gaze snaps to mine, a flare of pure, unadulterated heat cutting through his exhaustion. If we weren’t sitting in his childhood kitchen, I’m fairly certain he would drag me onto the granite counter.
“Exactly,” Dominic says, his voice a low rumble of approval. “They’re covering their asses.”
Esteban leans forward, looking at me as if I’ve just translated an ancient text. “So how do we stop them from moving her?”
“We don’t argue that nothing went wrong; something did.
We show them the risk can be managed without making separation the automatic solution.
” I slip into negotiation mode. “We draft a proposed addendum to Dustin’s care plan.
Then we offer to privately fund a security upgrade for the residential wing—particularly at any exits that provide access to the parking lot.
It negates their liability argument without admitting fundamental fault, and it helps Hannah’s parents feel accommodated rather than attacked. ”
Helena presses a hand to her heart. “You think that could work?”
“I can have the proposal drafted by 7:00 a.m.,” I state, already opening a blank document on my phone.
“No,” Dominic interjects, his tone leaving zero room for debate. He stands, pulling my chair back. “You can draft it after we’ve slept. The meeting isn’t until noon Thursday. We have all day to prepare. You don’t need to exhaust yourself this early into the battle.”
He has a point. Tactical fatigue is a real vulnerability.
After enduring another round of fiercely grateful hugs from his parents, Dominic laces his fingers through mine and guides me up the narrow stairs. We step into his childhood bedroom, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind us.
“With you on our side, Round Hill won’t know what hit them,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest in the dark.
I look up at him, the shadows of the room doing incredible things to the hard angles of his jaw. “Did I overstep down there? I know it’s your family’s dynamic, and I not only inserted myself but I also offered to spend your money on—”
“You’re my wife,” he interrupts, his voice a gravelly whisper. He crowds me against the solid wood of the door, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. “It’s our money. And you didn’t overstep. You were perfect. God, you were so fucking hot.”
His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and desperate, swallowing my gasp and tasting like the tea and empanadas we just had.
“We never got to finish what we started back home,” he murmurs against my lips, his hands already sliding my blazer off my shoulders and tossing it carelessly to the floor.
A laugh escapes my throat, but I press a hand to his chest, slowing the moment. “Dominic. Your parents are right down the hall.”
He doesn’t stop, and I honestly don’t want him to. His fingers make quick, ruthless work of my cashmere sweater, pulling it over my head. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, working his way down my neck and everywhere he can reach.
“It’s OK, Jen,” he says, his breath scorching my skin as he backs me toward the mattress. “They know what married couples do in bed together.”