Chapter 10 JENNA
He sets me down on the couch like I'm fragile cargo he doesn't want to drop. The penthouse is all glass, angles, and restrained excess. Everything is expensive. Everything looks controlled. It smells like leather, cold air, and power. Nothing here that gives a hint of the man standing before me.
He steps back immediately. Leans against the wall and crosses his arms like he wants to bring as much distance between us as possible.
"Talk." The word is flat. A command issued by a man used to being obeyed. It's not an invitation. I swallow.
My head feels thick and cottony, like the world hasn't quite snapped back into focus yet.
From the pain, the loss of my son, the lack of sleep, the fight with my father, the long walk.
Take your pick. I search his face for something—anything familiar—but it's unreadable.
Closed. Distant. Like he's already gone somewhere I'm not allowed to follow.
"I'm—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "My house… There was a home invasion." The words crumble as soon as they leave my mouth.
I press my lips together, but it's useless. Tears spill over anyway, hot and humiliating, sliding down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away.
"They killed Jason," I whisper. "They took Amauri and…
my… husband." I bite my lower lip, wondering if I should have said the last word or not.
Massimo always hated Carter, ever since that night…
He wanted to kill him, but I talked him out of it, and then fate intervened, and…
I can't say Carter got what he deserved, that's too cruel, his fate is one I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, but…
There is a part of me that… Stop! Now is not the time to psychoanalyze your fucked up relationship with your ex-boyfriend/husband.
Amauri, I remind myself. Amauri. My chest caves in, and I break, folding forward, hands fisting in my lap as sobs tear out of me. He doesn't move.
"I heard," he says, but doesn't step closer. Doesn't soften. Doesn't even flinch.
I look up at him through blurred vision, disbelief creeping in through the grief. What happened to him? This isn't the man I knew. Not even the version I was afraid of him becoming. This is… emptiness. Ice. Like he carved everything human out of himself and left nothing behind.
I didn't exactly expect a warm welcome.
But this?
This feels like hate.
And it hurts more than I'm prepared to admit. Why is he looking at me like that? He's the one who left. He's the one who vanished without a word, without a goodbye, without even the courtesy of an explanation.
And it's been ten years.
Ten!
Is it really so easy for him to dismiss me like this? Like I'm nothing more than an inconvenience that wandered into his life again?
Fine.
If this is how he wants it… I wipe my face with the back of my hand and straighten my spine. He's going to be cold? I can do cold, too. I've had practice.
"They took my son." The words come out clearly. No more shaking. No more tears.
Something flickers. Just a crack. He exhales slowly, his jaw tightens, his eyes darken with something that isn't anger.
"I heard that too." A pause. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry."
The words land heavier than anything else he's said.
I don't know why, but they almost undo me all over again.
I realize with terrifying clarity that whoever stands in front of me now isn't the man I loved.
But he might still be the only one who can save my son.
The old Massimo would already be on his knees in front of me, asking what he could do. How fast. How far. Who needed to bleed.
This one—this one doesn't move. He watches me like I'm a variable in a science experiment. I don't know what to say. That's the scary part. I've spoken to presidents, donors, and media sharks with smiles like knives. I know how to spin a room, how to bend a narrative until it breaks in my favor.
But this man?
I don't know how to reach him anymore. Most terrifying of all is that Amauri's life is ticking away while I hesitate.
The thought turns my stomach. I hate myself for what comes next, for the way my mind shifts into survival mode.
For the cold, ugly realization that this is no longer about truth or fairness or what anyone deserves.
It's about leverage. And I have none. He doesn't need any money.
There is no power he doesn't already own.
No secret, at least none that would scare him.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes cutting, dismissive. "So why are you here?" he asks coldly, gesturing vaguely around the penthouse. At the glass walls. Himself. "Daddy doesn't have enough reach?"
The words sting more than I would have expected. My throat tightens, but I force myself to breathe through it.
"My father knows who took them," I tread carefully. "And he's choosing not to help."
That earns me a flicker of interest. Not sympathy. Calculation.
"He thinks it's… advantageous," I continue, hating every syllable. "To let this play out."
Massimo's mouth tightens, just a fraction. "That's cold, even for the old bastard."
I swallow hard.
"I don't have anyone else," I admit. And this time I don't dress it up. Don't strategize. "You're the only one who can get my son back."
Silence stretches. I can feel the weight of the city pressing in through the glass, all that power and violence and consequence humming just beneath the surface. I meet his gaze, even though it hurts.
"I know you don't owe me anything," I add quietly. "I know you hate me. But Amauri is innocent. He didn't choose any of this." My voice breaks despite my best efforts. "And if you don't help me," I whisper, "he will die." I hold his eyes, refusing to look away.
He turns away from me. Moves to the bar like this conversation is nothing more than background noise.
It's early—too early—but he doesn't hesitate.
He reaches for a bottle that looks expensive and dangerous, pours himself a generous amount, and drinks it down like a man dying of thirst. The muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was stalling.
Hope flares anyway. Stupid. Desperate. Please, I beg silently. Please, please, please.
He pours another glass. Slower this time. Turns it in his hand once before drinking again. Then he faces me. His eyes are cold. So, so cold.
"And what would you do," he asks evenly, "if I got your son back?"
The answer comes without hesitation and in one breath. "Anything." The word falls out of me like a confession.
His mouth curves, not a smile. Something sharper.
"Anything?" he repeats. Mocking now. "You do know who you're negotiating with."
I nod. I do. God help me, I do.
"I'd do anything for him," I say. My voice shakes, but I don't stop. "For him."
"Him?" he echoes.
I nod again. "My son."
He lets out a short, humorless chuckle and turns back to the bar, pouring another bourbon like he needs it to keep himself upright. Ice-cold ants climb around inside my stomach, freezing me, and I wrap my arms around myself. I've never seen him like this, not even when we buried…
"You know what I find interestingly disturbing?" he throws over his shoulder, interrupting my thoughts.
I hold my breath. Shake my head. He sets the glass down with deliberate care and walks toward me. Every step tightens something in my chest. More ice ants begin to move through me, spreading from my stomach.
"You haven't pleaded for your husband yet," he says calmly. "The man you couldn't wait to marry."
He might as well have slapped me; that's how much the words sting.
He stops in front of me and then—slowly—lowers himself down until he's eye level with me.
Kneeling. Controlled. Intentional. He takes my face in his hands, and I stiffen.
He's not rough. But he's not gentle either.
It's a precise vise. The contact sends a jolt of electricity straight through me.
My skin remembers him before my fear catches up.
And then the fear hits anyway—sharp and paralyzing—because there is nothing in his expression. No warmth. No anger. No mercy.
Just a void.
For the first time in my life, I'm afraid of him. "Please," I whisper.
His thumbs press lightly into my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"Please, what?" he demands.
The question is a blade.
"Please save my son and my husband," I rush out, the words tumbling over each other.
He tilts his head, studying me like a problem he already knows the answer to.
"Or," he continues for me, keeping his voice dangerously calm, "please save my son and let my husband rot?"
My breath stutters. I can't answer. The truth is already written all over my face.
And he sees it. Every last piece. I don't know what he wants.
That's the worst part. If he wanted money, I'd find it.
If he wanted blood, I'd cut myself. If he wanted obedience, silence, a signature—anything concrete—I would give it to him.
But he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he already solved and discarded.
His thumb brushes my lower lip. It's barely a touch.
Accidental, almost. It's enough for my body to betray me in the worst way.
Heat curls low in my stomach, slow and treacherous, a pulse I haven't felt in years waking like it was never gone at all.
It chases the cold from my limbs, spreads in places I don't have words for anymore.
Shame crashes into me instantly. I hate myself for it.
But my body doesn't care about pride or timing or betrayal.
It remembers him the way smoke remembers fire.
The way muscles remember a movement long after the mind forgets.
I don't have a reference point. I never did.
He was my first and only. There was only ever him.
I've never slept with anyone else. Never wanted to.
Never needed to. And maybe that makes me pathetic, or na?ve, or weak, but I know, deep in my bones, with terrifying certainty, that no man will ever make me feel the way he did.
He ruined me for everyone else. My body knows it. Remembers.
Something flickers in his eyes. He sees it too.
Whatever I hoped for dies instantly. Disgust floods his expression, sharp and unfiltered.
Like I've confirmed something ugly he already suspected.
He jerks his hands away from my face and rises abruptly, as if staying close another second might contaminate him.
"You don't have anything I want," he says coldly. The words land like a death sentence. "You wasted your time."
My chest tightens, and panic claws its way up my throat. "If your father doesn't want to interfere," he continues, turning away from me like I'm already finished, "then he must have his reasons."
The room feels suddenly enormous. Too quiet. Too empty. My heart hammers, every instinct screams at me that this is it, that if I don't say something now, I'll lose everything. Including my son.
Most shameful of all, somewhere beneath the terror, beneath the grief, beneath the humiliation, my body still leans toward him, and I realize, with sickening clarity, that he knows exactly how much power that gives him.
My heart hardens. It's ugly. It's feral. It has nothing to do with dignity or pride or fear anymore. It has everything to do with my son.
"You have to get him back," I demand. My voice doesn't shake this time. "You have to."
He lets out a short laugh. Sharp. Disbelieving. "I don't have to do anything. This has nothing to do with me."
Slowly, I stand up. My knees are no longer weak. My body isn't cold anymore. It's actually getting hotter as fury rises inside me, the kind of fury only a mother knows when her young are in danger. I glare at him, every ounce of fear burning away under something hotter. "You're wrong."
His eyes flick to me, irritated.
"It has everything to do with you. He's your son." The words detonate between us. The second they leave my mouth, I know I've made a mistake.
A terrible one.
The silence that follows is violent.
He stares at me like the world has tilted off its axis.
Like I've just rewritten something fundamental inside him without permission.
The glass in his hand flies. Not dropped.
Thrown. It whistles through the air like a missile and explodes against the window behind me, bourbon and shards raining down in a sharp, glittering spray. The sound is deafening. Final.
I flinch but only barely. I don't step back. I don't scream. I don't apologize. I stand there and let the storm come.
He's on me in a heartbeat. Too fast. Too close. His face is inches from mine, his eyes are blazing, his jaw clenches so hard I can see the tendons in his neck strain. Veins stand out along his throat. His chest rises and falls like he's fighting something inside himself with everything he has.
His lips move. But no sound comes out. For a second, I think he might kill me.
And if this is how it ends—fine. At least he knows.
At least Amauri isn't a ghost anymore. At least the truth is out there now, breathing between us, impossible to take back.
I stare right back at him, heart hammering, spine straight.
Because even if I don't know him anymore—even if the man in front of me is a stranger carved out of rage and scars—I know men like him.
Men like him don't abandon their blood. Men like him don't leave their sons in the hands of kidnappers.
And whether he wants me dead and gone, or broken for daring to say it, he won't let Amauri die.
Not now. Not ever.
He knows it. I know it. And soon, Amauri will too.