Chapter 16
I pace. Not because I'm nervous. Because if I stop moving, I might break something. The hallway in front of Massimo's bedroom is too clean, too quiet. The marble under my bare feet is cool, the soft lighting meant to soothe. Nothing about this night should be soothed.
I drag a hand through my hair and exhale hard through my nose. Get it together.
I was ready for this. I prepped for this. I built myself up brick by brick while he was gone, told myself exactly what I would say, exactly how this would go.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for vanishing ten years ago like I was nothing. Like what we had was disposable. One day he was there—dangerous and intense and real—and the next he was just gone. No explanation. No goodbye. Just absence.
Poof.
And now he has the audacity to stand there and look at me like I committed some unforgivable crime because I didn't bring a baby to his doorstep while he was off doing whatever he was doing?
I didn't withhold Amauri. I protected him.
The memory sharpens my spine instead of softening it.
I didn't know where Massimo Manetti went.
He was like a ghost. We had disposable phones we only used to contact each other, and his went silent just like him.
So yeah, fuck him. He walked out on me! I didn't know if he'd ever come back.
My father gave me two choices. Marry Carter or get an abortion.
So yes. I chose.
I chose my son. And three months later, I was married to Carter. If that makes me guilty in his eyes, he can choke on it.
I stop pacing long enough to plant my hands on my hips and stare at his bedroom door.
He's in there now. I can hear the shower running.
I can almost see the steam fogging up the glass like this is just another night, another problem he'll wash off his skin before going out to solve his problems with violence and money.
Good for him. I don't get that luxury.
I don't get to be distracted, especially not by the infuriating fact that my body still remembers his. The way he fills space. The way my pulse reacts when he's too close. No. I shove that thought down hard.
I don't get to be horny.
I don't get to be nostalgic.
I don't get to want him.
Amauri is missing.
Everything else is noise.
If Massimo decides this is too complicated, too political, too slow—if he starts talking about strategy while my son is somewhere terrified and alone—
I'll do it myself. I have connections. Not like his.
Not armies or empires or warehouses full of men who kill on command.
But I'm not powerless. I know people who owe my father.
I know people who owe me. I know how to move quietly when I must. If I have to burn bridges to get Amauri back, I will.
If I have to walk into hell without Massimo, I will.
He doesn't get the moral high ground. He doesn't get to decide how this goes.
The shower shuts off. My heart kicks once, hard, traitorous. For a moment, I wonder if he still likes it as hot as he used to. Then I straighten my spine and still myself. Whatever comes out of that room isn't a savior. He's either an ally—or he's in my way.
I will not hesitate to remove obstacles.
I've killed a man before. Not in anger. Not for power. I did it because he didn't stop. I'd do it again. Now more than ever.
The door opens. Massimo steps out. Fully dressed. Black suit, cut sharp enough to look like it could draw blood. Black shirt beneath it, no softness anywhere, no concessions. A red tie at his throat. Dark, deliberate, like he put it on knowing exactly what it does to people. To me.
His hair is dry now, dark brown so deep it's almost black, brushed back in that careless way that isn't careless at all.
His face is all hard lines and control, his eyes piercing, unreadable, dangerous.
He looks like a gangster. Not the myth. Not the romanticized version.
The real thing. The kind of man mothers warn their daughters about and daughters dream about anyway.
Every inch of him is confidence, power, violence wrapped in tailoring that probably costs more than most people's cars.
My body reacts before I can stop it. Heat.
Low and traitorous. A sharp pull in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with memory.
God help me, he's been the star of my wet dreams more times than I want to admit; I want him even now, even like this.
I hate that. I clamp down hard on the feeling, like slamming a door on a draft.
Not now. Not him. Not when my son is missing.
Massimo's gaze flicks over me once, fast and assessing, like he's taking inventory. I can't tell if he notices my reaction or if he's just cataloging threats the way he always does.
"Have you eaten?" he asks.
The question throws me more than anything else tonight.
"No." It confuses me enough to counter, "Have you?"
A pause. Fractional. Honest. "No."
I fold my arms. "Then don't start."
"You need to eat," he replies calmly.
"So do you." I refute.
His mouth tightens, not irritation. Something else. Like he hadn't expected the mirror.
"I will," he almost smirks.
"When?" I ask.
He meets my eyes. Holds them. "After I know where our son is."
The word lands: our. But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. He doesn't get to play the martyr.
"Then we're both starving," I grind out. "Congratulations. Very productive."
A ghost of something crosses his face. Not a smile.
"Stubborn," he accuses.
"Takes one," I reply.
Silence settles as we both remember the old times we used to banter. But it's different now. Combative. He's still watching me intently when his lips move again. "I know where the helicopter went."
Just like that, we're back to business. Back to war. My heart steadies. Focus snaps back into place. "Where?"
"Venezuela."
The word doesn't make sense.
"Venezuela?" It takes me a moment to connect the dots. "So, my father was right. This is about the bill. About drugs."
"Looks like it," he agrees.
I press my arms against my chest, grounding myself, ignoring the way the suit moves when he shifts, how everything about him looks like it was designed to command attention.
"Kingsley's bill will hurt them. Nevada, New York, Chicago, and L.A. are their primary markets," Massimo explains.
I frown. "It's a good bill."
"Depends on where you stand," he disagrees. "Drugs are a lucrative business; they bring in a lot of money, and money is important to a lot of very powerful people."
I draw a slow breath, grounding myself. "Drugs are evil. They ruin lives. They kill people. They rot everything they touch."
Massimo watches me like I've just said something interesting, not na?ve.
"People ruin themselves," he replies mildly. "Drugs just show them how."
"That's bullshit," I snap. "They need to be stopped. They shouldn't be coming into this country at all."
He laughs then. Not loud. Not cruel. Almost fond. "And you think your father is the right man to stop that?"
"Damn straight I do." As his daughter, I might not be his biggest fan, but this I can say without hesitation. "He believes in it. He's spent his entire career trying to clean things up."
Massimo nods once, slow. Considering. "Sweetheart," he says gently, and the word lands heavier than any insult ever could, "politicians are the ones who benefit the most from drug money."
I stare at him. "That's not true. They're the ones trying to stop it."
This time, he laughs out loud. The sound cuts through the room, sharp and unapologetic. He shakes his head like he can't believe I still think the world works the way it's supposed to.
"Do you really believe," he asks calmly, "that if the full power of the United States government wanted drugs out of this country—if the DEA, the FBI, the military, every alphabet agency you can name actually wanted them gone—they would still be here?"
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. I close it. My mind whirls. Is he right?
"Borders are suggestions," he continues. "Ports are owned. Cartels don't move without permission. Nothing that big survives without protection."
I feel cold all over.
"Trust me, Sirena." His tone is not condescending, which makes it worse. "The men you vote for are the ones getting rich." My stomach twists. "And I'm fully on board," he adds, without shame, "with benefiting from the same system they pretend to fight."
Silence crashes down between us. I don't agree with him. I've always known my father could be cruel. Ambitious. Calculating. But I thought the crusades were real. That the causes meant something. That underneath the strategy, there was conviction. If that isn't true—
I swallow. "My father—"
"—has enemies," Massimo cuts in calmly. "And protection."
The words scrape.
"You don't know him," I deny. "He's difficult. He's cold. He's obsessed with appearances. But he's not corrupt. Not in the way you are thinking."
The word hangs between us. I'm not na?ve about my father.
He knew what Carter did to me. He knew. And he still pushed the wedding forward.
For his campaign. For the optics. For control.
I don't pretend that was kindness. But ambition isn't the same thing as corruption.
My father truly believes in what he's fighting.
Human trafficking. Drug cartels. The men who profit off addiction and broken girls.
I've seen the files. The late-night strategy calls.
The anger that isn't performative. He wants to stop it.
He just believes the world is only saved by people ruthless enough to reshape it.
And sometimes, reshaping it requires collateral.
I was collateral, I accepted that. What I can't accept, what I can't forgive, ever, is his willingness to sacrifice Amauri.
Still, objectively, that doesn't make him corrupt.
It makes him… an asshole. A very egocentric, egomaniacal asshole.
Massimo studies me for a long moment. Not dismissive. Almost careful.
"I'm not saying he sold himself," he admits quietly. "I'm saying someone found a way to hold him still."
The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. "That's not the same thing."
"No," Massimo agrees. "It's worse."
I shake my head. "You're reaching."
"If I am," he challenges, "prove it."
That stops me. He steps closer—not crowding me, not touching—but close enough that I have to tilt my chin up.
"New York doesn't invest in politicians out of admiration," he continues.
"They invest because they get something back.
Silence. Timing. Restraint." My stomach twists.
"And when a man with a clean public image becomes untouchable," Massimo continues, "it's usually because touching him would expose something. "
He's giving me a challenge. "You're thinking my father is in the New York mafia's pocket. You want me to look and find out why?"
"Yes."
"You want me to investigate my father."
"See what he's protecting," Massimo reiterates.
I swallow.
"For Amauri," he adds.
The word lands differently now. Not as leverage.
As alignment. I look away, jaw tight, thoughts racing.
If someone has something on my father… if this isn't about money…
if this is about reputation, or history, or a mistake buried deep enough to rot quietly…
it would almost make sense that he's ready to sacrifice his grandson. Not to me. But to his fucked-up mind.
"What if there's nothing?" I argue purely on reflex, years of conditioning.
"Then we clear him," Massimo replies without hesitation. "And we remove anyone who thought our son was acceptable collateral."
My chest tightens with something I refuse to name.
"And if there is something?" I ask quietly.
Massimo's eyes darken, his tone merciless. "Then we use it. And we get Amauri back."
I straighten, spine locking into place. "Fine," I agree. "I'll look."
He nods once. No triumph. No gratitude. Just war, advancing.
As he turns back toward the exit, I realize something chillingly clear: He didn't ask me to make myself useful. He assumed I would. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel deployed. I feel valued.