Chapter 13
"So I left," she concludes. "And came here."
The words land harder than they should. Jenna Whitford doesn't run toward safety.
She runs toward fire and hopes it burns the right people first. I'm about to ask the next question.
The one that matters. The one that will decide whether I throw her out or lock her in.
When my phone rings. Enzo. Shit, I don't have time for this.
"Not now, Enzo," I snap, irritation flaring hot and sharp. I turn slightly, half-present, my attention still split. Part of me is still tracking her posture, the way she's holding herself upright by force of will alone, the other is already bracing.
He must hear the impatience in my voice, my distraction, because he throws the words at me like bumper stickers to catch my attention. "We found more laced Coke. Same signature. Fentanyl."
My jaw tightens. My brow furrows as the words come through the line, precise and methodical, slotting into place like teeth on a gear.
"I'll be right there." I end the call. Whatever else is happening, this needs my immediate attention.
I stare at Jenna, the urge to pull her into my arms collides head-on with the urge to crush the life out of her. Both instincts are sharp. Both feel earned.
I settle for, "Get some rest. I need to go." Turning to Gabe, I order, "You stay here. Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."
"Yes, boss," he replies easily.
Trusting him, I pull the phone back out and dial Enzo as I exit my penthouse and enter the security antechamber, where my guards instantly stand to attention. One presses the elevator button, and the other six fall in line.
"Stay here, Max. Nobody in, nobody out," I order.
"Yes, boss."
"Boss?" Enzo answers.
"Where?" I bark out, pushing the casino level button.
He gives me the address of one of our dealers who was found dead a few minutes ago. He gives me more details on my ride down and on my way to the valet area, where three SUVs are already idling.
"And Massimo," Enzo adds, "this was done after it left our control."
I close my eyes for half a second.
That's when I feel it, the pressure from both sides. My empire is bleeding in places people can see. And a few stories above me, a woman is wrapped in my shirt, looking like she might break if someone touches her wrong. Two wars. One distraction.
"I'm on my way." I end the call.
The city slides past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow, Vegas breathing neon like nothing is wrong.
Something is very wrong. This isn't random.
It never is. Someone is moving against me with intention, touching my product, poisoning my reputation, testing how far they can go without forcing my hand.
They're not trying to burn my empire down.
They're trying to make it turn on me. That's what I should be thinking about.
About the structure. The routes. The men who might be wavering.
The pattern forming just beneath the surface.
Instead, I see her.
In my shirt.
Fuck.
The memory hits uninvited, vivid as a bruise.
The way the fabric swallowed her frame, how it slipped off one shoulder because she was too tired to notice.
Bare legs. Wet hair. Wrapped hands. She looked like she'd been pulled out of a wreck and set down somewhere she didn't belong.
I didn't give her options. I know that. She took what she could find.
Still, why did it have to be that shirt?
I grip my jaw, irritation flaring hot. It's ridiculous. A shirt means nothing. It's fabric. Cotton. Replaceable. Except it isn't. She shouldn't look like that in anything of mine. She looked… fragile. Beautifully broken.
The thought turns sour immediately. I wanted to fix her, just like back then.
The instinct came fast and dangerous, the urge to pull her into my arms, to press her head against my chest and promise her that everything would be okay.
That I would make it okay. That nothing else would touch her.
God help me, I still want that. The pull she has on me is uncanny.
Even knowing what I do about her. Sirena.
What they didn't tell you in legends is that even if you manage to walk away, their allure will never leave you. Eventually, they'll get you.
Then Amauri cuts through the fantasy like a blade.
My son.
The word snaps me back into place, rage surges hard enough to wipe everything else clean.
She kept him from me.
For ten fucking years.
Every mile the car eats up feeds the fury, sharpens it into something useful. I don't forgive. I don't forget. Wanting her doesn't change what she did.
But wanting her matters. That's the problem.
She wasn't my first. I've never pretended otherwise. Desire has never been scarce in my world, and I've never been a man who denies himself what he wants. But Jenna—
God.
She was different. Innocent, at least at first, until I ruined her, then she wasn't fragile. She burned. She answered. She didn't just take what I gave, she met it, matched it, undid me in ways no one else ever managed to. My body remembers her without asking permission, a low, dangerous pull.
I hate that I want her.
Physically. Viscerally. Enough that the thought of anyone else touching her makes something ugly coil in my chest. Enough that I can already feel the justification lining up, neat and merciless.
Maybe I don't hurt her. Maybe I make her pay another way.
She can't be punished like a man. Not really. And no matter how much I want to tear into her for what she did, I can't bring myself to destroy the mother of my child. That leaves… alternatives.
A widow is still useful.
A woman bound to me, whether she wants it or not, is leverage I understand very well. Or maybe I don't decide yet. Maybe I keep her close. Where I can see her. Touch her. Where she can't disappear again. Where every breath she takes reminds her who she belongs to now.
Because a son needs his mother.
Whether I hate her or crave her—or both—Jenna is no longer someone I can cut loose without consequence. I don't need to decide what I feel. I need to decide what I do. She's mine to do with as I please. When I please.
The plan begins to take shape quietly, methodically, the way all good ones do. Not mercy. Not revenge.
Leverage.
The most dangerous part?
I don't know yet whether she's the weapon or the reward. Or the mistake I'll make anyway, because I've never been very good at resisting the things that ruin me.
The car slows as we near the address Enzo gave me, and security lights sweep over steel and glass.
Someone is trying to make me look weak. They picked the wrong moment. Because if there's one thing I still know how to do better than anyone, it's turn obsession into power.
The car pulls to a stop, and the noise in my head goes quiet as utter focus settles in.
The dealer's name was Steven. Young. Careful.
Ambitious. Exactly the kind of man I prefer working for me, smart enough to stay alive, hungry enough to listen.
He picked up the coke from Pablo, one of my lieutenants.
Pablo was there when the shipment came in. I was there too.
I remember it clearly.
We tested it together. Clean. No smell of chemicals. No bitterness on the tongue. Nothing raised alarms. From there, it went straight to Steven. No stops. No middlemen. Which means the contamination happened during transport. Someone got to it after it left Pablo's hands.
I step out of the car as Enzo joins me; his expression is already grim.
The building Steven lived in rises in front of us, new construction, glass and steel, trying hard to look more expensive than it is.
Decent. Clean. The kind of place a man rents when he wants to project success without drawing attention.
Exactly what I encourage.
Our dealers don't look desperate. They don't look flashy. They blend into high-end gyms, rooftop bars, and charity galas. They deliver to clients who pay more because they expect better. Dead clients ruin that illusion.
Inside the apartment, Enzo's people are already busy cleaning. The furniture is modern and neutral. No clutter. No chaos. Steven was careful, even in death.
"Timeline?" I look to Enzo.
"Somewhere between three and eight in the morning," he fills me in. "Security cameras show him leaving around nine last night, coming back around one."
"Was he out doing deliveries?"
"Checking right now," Bello holds up what I'm guessing is Steven's phone.
I walk slowly through the living space, cataloging details. Windows. Door locks. The counter where the product would have been set down. This wasn't a smash-and-grab. This was intimate.
"He trusted someone," I venture.
"Yes," Enzo agrees. "Or someone made sure he didn't notice."
I stop near the kitchen, staring at the empty counter; the absence is louder than anything else in the room.
"This wasn't meant to wipe us out," I continue. "If it were, they'd have laced the entire stash."
"They want fear," Enzo speculates. "Selective damage. Bodies that point back to you."
I nod in agreement. "They're not attacking my money. They're attacking my reputation."
That fact alone is telling. This isn't random violence. This is someone who understands how power actually works. Someone patient. Someone with history. Someone who wants me looking everywhere at once.
I think of Jenna again, but this time, I push the thought aside deliberately.
Later.
Right now, I have a trail to follow.
"Lock this place down," I tell Enzo. "Find out who Steven saw in the last forty-eight hours. Anyone who touched that product. Anyone who breathed near it."
He nods. "Already in motion."
Bello clears his throat as he enters. "There's something else."
I turn slowly, giving him my full attention. Bello doesn't interrupt unless it matters.
"The entertainer," he continues. "And Mia Pascale. Both are low-level famous. Enough name recognition to get press. Enough relevance to raise eyebrows."