Chapter 12
I'm so tired it feels like my bones are hollow. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that seeps into your marrow and stays there, humming. My head throbs in slow, punishing waves, and pain pushes the medication the doctor gave me. Every blink feels like an effort.
My hands are wrapped in thick, layered white gauze, making them clumsy and foreign. Earlier, the doctor picked tiny rocks and cactus spines from my palms one by one, apologizing each time his tweezers pinched skin instead of thorn. I cried the entire time. Silently. I couldn't help it.
My hands look like a wrapped mummy, which just makes me think more of Amauri. Of how small his hands looked wrapped in mine when he was learning to walk. How he used to press his palms flat against my cheeks when he wanted my full attention.
"Anything else hurt?" the doctor asks.
Nothing he can fix, so I shake my head. "No," I whisper. My throat tightens anyway.
"Just scrapes and bruises," he diagnoses, almost kindly. "You were lucky. Nothing sprained. Nothing broken."
Lucky. The word lands wrong. I start crying again, silent and shaking, my shoulders fold in on themselves. Lucky that my son was taken. Lucky that my husband was dragged off. Lucky that I escaped just far enough to watch it happen.
The doctor watches me with a detached sympathy that feels practiced. He's older, gray at the temples, eyes dulled like someone who's seen too much suffering to react the way people expect. He pats my shoulder once, awkward but not unkind.
"Take care of yourself now," he suggests.
It's probably the closest he'll come to comfort. He opens the door to leave, and voices drift in from the other side. Low. Male. Controlled. Massimo isn't alone anymore.
The door closes softly, cutting the sound off, but it's too late.
The knowledge settles in, heavy and unavoidable.
I just want to curl up on the bed and disappear in this immaculate room that is too perfect.
Cream-colored walls, dark wood accents, sheets so crisp they barely wrinkle beneath me.
Everything smells faintly of clean linen and something sharper underneath, money, power, order.
Before he wrapped my hands, the doctor let me shower.
The bathroom is obscene in its luxury. Marble everywhere, warm beneath my bare feet.
Water that came down in a steady, enveloping sheet, hot enough to sting, then soothe.
I stood under it longer than necessary, letting it pound against my scalp, trail down my back, carry dirt and blood and fear down the drain.
For just a moment, I closed my eyes and forced myself to forget. To forget helicopters, forget the screams, forget the look on Amauri's face. It lasted maybe thirty seconds.
Now I'm wearing a shirt I found in the walk-in closet. Too big. Soft. It smells like Massimo: clean, masculine, and unmistakable. The scent wraps around me like a memory I didn't ask for, makes my chest ache in a way I don't have the energy to fight.
I know I need to go out there. I know I need to face him again. Whatever comes next. Whatever punishment or bargain or war he decides on. But I'm so tired. So bone-weary.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my wrapped hands, breathing in the scent of him, and wonder how much more a person can lose before there's nothing left to take.
With effort, I force myself off the bed.
Every step feels like wading through water, but I keep going anyway.
The door opens without sound, and the living area stretches out before me, glass and marble, city rising beyond the windows like a living thing.
Just like I thought, he isn't alone. There's a stranger with him now.
Tall. Dark-haired. Broad shoulders under a jacket worn like armor.
He's handsome in the way men who live close to violence often are—sharp lines, controlled posture—but there's something cruel carved into his features.
Not flashy. Not theatrical. Just… permanent.
Like he's learned exactly where mercy fails and never bothered looking for it again.
Then again, Massimo wears the same mark now.
"Jenna," Massimo announces flatly without looking at me. It hurts anyway. "Gabriel," he adds, turning slightly.
"Gabe," the other corrects mildly.
"Gabe," Massimo finishes, then gestures toward me without warmth. "Jenna."
Gabe's gaze settles on me, curious but not invasive.
Not sexual. Not dismissive. He assesses me the way a soldier sizes up terrain, cataloging, measuring, and noting damage.
I feel Massimo's eyes on me too, heavy and unavoidable, but I don't let myself look at him.
I know what I look like. My hair is still wet, clinging in darkened curls around my face.
No makeup. No shoes. Hands wrapped thickly in white gauze.
The too-big shirt that hangs off my shoulders because I have nothing left of my own. Which is exactly the truth.
Pitiful.
The thought snaps something sharp and angry into place inside me. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin. If we're at war, I won't back down. Gabe nods once, as if acknowledging the shift. Something like respect flickers across his face.
Massimo finally speaks. "What does your father know about this?" he demands. Ruthless and calm. "Do not leave anything out. No matter how inconsequential you think it is."
I swallow. My throat tightens, but I push through it. "He knows who took them," I fill him in. Saying it out loud still feels like swallowing glass. "He knew almost immediately."
Massimo's jaw tightens. I don't miss it. "Who?"
"He didn't tell me." Finally, I meet his gaze. I need him to know that this is the truth. "He said that plenty of people were angry about his latest proposal, mostly the Cartels," I continue. "About the drug bill. He thinks they're using Carter and Amauri as leverage. To force him to back off."
"To stall," Gabe murmurs.
"Yes," I agree, nodding. "Or kill it entirely."
Massimo's silence is a weight pressing against my ribs.
"He also said…" My voice falters. I force it to steady. "He said it was… advantageous. Politically. That this could be spun. That the public would sympathize, rally."
Gabe lets out a low whistle. Massimo still won't look at me.
"And you?" he asks. The question lands heavier than the rest. "What did he expect you to do?"
My hands curl uselessly inside their wrappings.
"He expected me to stay," I say quietly. "To be sedated. Managed. Out of the way."
Gabe's eyes flick to my bandaged hands, then back to Massimo. I can feel Massimo now. Not just watching but measuring. Like he's trying to decide what I am to him in this moment. Liability. Weapon. Weakness.
Every part of me reacts to him anyway. My pulse stutters. My skin tightens. Even now, even after everything, he pulls at me like gravity. I hate that. I also need him.
"So I left," I finish. "And I came here."
Silence stretches.
The city glows behind them, indifferent. Massimo's gaze finally lifts. It hits me like a physical thing. Cold. Dark. Unreadable. A shiver moves through me at the thought that whatever happens next, he's already decided I'm part of it. Whether I survive it or not is still up for debate.
His phone rings. He exhales sharply. "Not now, Enzo."
A beat passes. His expression shifts. His brow wrinkles, his jaw tightens as he listens. He glances at Gabe, who meets his gaze instantly, alert and focused.
"I'll be right there." Massimo ends the call.
He looks at me like he's memorizing a problem he doesn't have time to solve. "Get some rest," he orders. "I need to go." Then, to Gabe, without lowering his voice, "You stay here. Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."
"Yes, boss," Gabe replies easily.
Without another word—without another look—Massimo turns and storms out. The door closes behind him with finality. The absence he leaves behind is louder than the destruction earlier.
Gabe shifts his weight and looks at me, the edge of danger softened just slightly by practicality. "Hungry?"
I shake my head. The idea of food feels impossible.
"I'll go," I say quietly, "and try to get some sleep."
He nods once. Doesn't argue. Doesn't follow.
The guest bedroom welcomes me back in its sterile luxury.
I close the door, lean my forehead against it for a second longer than necessary, then cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed.
I don't think I can sleep. I don't think my mind or the pain in my chest will let me.
When they say your heart bleeds, they weren't lying, and it hurts.
Exhaustion, however, doesn't ask permission.
I lie down, the sheets cool against my skin, and inhale Massimo's scent that still clings faintly to the shirt I'm wearing.
Against all expectations, I fall asleep.
Not peacefully. But deeply. As if my body knows the war has begun and is stealing what rest it can before everything breaks loose.