Chapter 26 - JENNA
The penthouse is too quiet. No screams. No gunfire. No alarms. Just the hum of the city far below and the echo of my own pulse pounding in my ears. I pace, barefoot, back and forth. Too fast. Like if I stop moving, everything that almost happened will catch up to me. I almost got kidnapped.
Again.
My hands shake when I realize that part still hasn't landed properly.
Not a misunderstanding. Not security theater.
Men walked into a boutique with guns and intent, and eyes locked on me.
The same men who took my son. The thought makes my vision blur red.
I drag a hand through my hair, breathing hard, trying to slow my thoughts and failing spectacularly. Because it's not just them.
It's Marianne.
And Sean.
Sean.
My stomach turns at the memory of his hand on her back. Familiar. Possessive. Like they'd rehearsed it. Like they were comfortable in each other's space in a way that had nothing to do with chance. What the hell was he doing there?
I stop pacing long enough to press my palms against the window. Think.
My father must have sent them. That's the reflexive thought. The safe one. The one that still wants him to be the villain that I understand—controlling, cold, obsessed with optics. He can't be bothered to call me, but he sends his lackeys after me.
But that doesn't explain the attack. That doesn't explain guns in a casino boutique. That doesn't explain why men would risk an international incident to grab me.
Unless—
My chest tightens. Unless Amauri and Carter aren't enough anymore. Unless they realize something I'm not prepared to face yet. That I matter. Not politically. Not symbolically. But tactically. I laugh once, sharp and humorless.
Congratulations, Jenna. You've been upgraded from collateral to asset.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes something ugly and determined settle into place. I turn back to the room, eyes scanning Massimo's office like it might answer me if I stare hard enough.
Marianne wasn't trying to help me.
She was trying to move me. Get me alone. Get me out of Massimo's orbit. Get me somewhere she controlled. Sean was the contingency in case she needed force. My pulse spikes again. I don't know how he fits into this yet. I just know he does.
The worst part?
Somewhere deep down, past the fear and the rage and the betrayal, something colder clicks into place.
They came for me because my father didn't bend.
I already knew that, but part of me was still hoping…
it makes me wonder, would he bend if they had me too?
If I thought that for a second, they wouldn't have to abduct me.
I'd run to them screaming, arms waving, saying take me, take me.
I wish I could still say that my father does the things he does for ideological reasons, because he truly wants the drugs off the streets.
A few days ago, I believed that. Not today, though.
Not after the paper trails I've found. Not after seeing the gleam in his eyes.
After seeing how much the idea of playing the martyred man who lost his family appeals to him.
A knock on the door interrupts me. "Come in."
Max sticks his head in. "Just wanting to check up on you. Do you need anything? Changed your mind about the doc?"
"I'm fine," I assure him. As fine as I can be. "I don't need a doctor, I wasn't hurt, which, by the way. Thank you." I don't think I thanked him yet.
He did save me.
"I just did my job."
I force a grin. "And a good one at that. I'll tell Massimo to give you a raise." But even I don't believe that I have that kind of power.
"By the way, next time, if you want to meet someone, just tell me." He winks, but it doesn't look friendly. "No need to play charades."
I hold his gaze. "Noted."
Our eyes hold for a few more moments, then he nods. "Alright then, if you don't need—" He's about to close the door and leave when a thought strikes me.
"The men? You did get one alive?"
"That was smart thinking on your part. Yes. He's alive, we have him."
I don't even know what I want yet, or why I'm curious. "Where is he? Will he be questioned?"
Max looks more than uncomfortable now. "Uhm…" he runs a hand through his hair. "You shouldn't bother yourself with that."
But I am bothered. I am bothered that this man is part of the group of people who came into my house and took my son. What gave them the right to do that?
I straighten, the pacing inside me slowing into something sharper.
"Where is he?" I ask again.
Max exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. Not dismissive. Careful. "Jenna—"
"I'm not asking to hurt him," I cut in. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. "I'm asking where he is."
A beat. He studies me like he's reassessing the terrain. Like he's deciding whether I'm glass or steel.
Finally, "Not here, at a safe place. Enzo's handling it."
I have no idea who Enzo is, but I assume he must be more important than Max. I also have no idea of the hierarchy in the mafia, so I don't know what title Max or anybody else holds. I'm more of a corporate kind of girl.
It doesn't matter; what matters is, "Is he being questioned?"
Max hesitates just long enough to be an answer. "Yes."
I nod once. That confirms what I already suspected. Before I even know what I'm requesting, the words pop out of my mouth, "Take me to him."
Max's head snaps up. "No." It's automatic. Reflex. Protective. He looks almost apologetic about it. He backpaddles, "This isn't something you should see. It's not—"
"—clean?" I finish for him. "Comfortable? Easy to watch?"
His jaw tightens. "It's not for you."
I meet his eyes. Hold them once again. "He might have been part of the group that took my son," I explain quietly in case he didn't get the memo. "I think that makes it very much for me."
He doesn't argue immediately. That tells me everything.
"I won't interfere," I continue. "I won't touch him. I won't make this harder. I just want to be there."
"To do what?" he asks.
"To look at him," I say. "And ask him one question."
Max rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through his control. "Jenna—"
"I almost got taken today," I interrupt. "Again. While I was shopping for clothes."
That lands.
"They didn't miss," I add. "They just didn't get me."
Silence stretches between us. I can see the calculations behind his eyes now. The ones Massimo taught him. Risk. Fallout. Control. Damage. He exhales. "I'll call Enzo. But if he says no—"
"I'll accept it," I lie.
Max doesn't look convinced. But he nods once and pulls out his phone, stepping just outside the door.
I stand there alone, heart hammering, my reflection staring back at me from the dark glass.
This isn't about revenge. Not yet. This is about reclaiming something they took when they decided I was leverage instead of a mother.
And if Massimo's world thinks I'm going to stay upstairs, wrapped in glass and silence, while the men who hurt my son talk in rooms below…
they don't know what a mother is capable of.
I hear Max's voice, low and tense, through the door. A pause. Then another. When he comes back in, his expression has changed.
"Enzo says… five minutes," he tells me. "You don't speak unless he clears it."
"That's fair," I agree.
He searches my face one last time. "Once we walk out that door, you will do whatever I tell you to do? And if I think it's too dangerous to move you right now, we come back here."
He's serious about it. I nod. Because my being taken is not in the best interest of my son.
We leave through a private elevator, then through the casino floor, which is, like always, packed with people. I notice six men are guarding me now, including Max. Max's eyes shift from left to right, then right to left. Never resting. He takes in everything around us, leaving nothing to chance.
The SUV is already waiting by the valet entrance, engine running, doors opening before we reach it. Two cars fall in behind us as we pull away from the casino's artificial glow. Seconds later, Vegas blurs past the tinted windows, neon bleeds into concrete, thins, then disappears altogether.
The city gives way to industrial nothing.
The drive is quiet. Nobody says a word as I stare out the window at the darkening sky.
The day is finally coming to an end. I wish I could just roll up in bed, pull the sheets over my head, and forget everything.
But that's a luxury a mother doesn't have. Not when her child is in danger.
The building appears without ceremony. Low. Squat. Forgettable. A crematorium. My stomach drops.
"Oh," I murmur before I can stop myself. "Fuck."
Max doesn't look at me. "They call it the Oven."
Of course they do. Genius, really. Heat.
Finality. No questions asked. But still…
fuck. The SUV stops. The air outside is still warm, heavy with the faint metallic tang of ash and old smoke.
We walk through a nondescript door into a nondescript room.
A man stands by another door, leading into the back.
His hands are folded in front of him like a man standing guard at a church or a slaughterhouse.
He's bigger than I imagined. Broader. And his face, oh my God, his face.
It takes effort not to flinch. Scars map him like a history written in flesh.
Not one clean line, but many. Burns. Knife work.
Damage layered on damage until the man underneath feels almost secondary to what's been done to him.
He watches me carefully as I approach. Waiting for something. Before I can step past him, he lifts a hand.
"Enzo."
I assumed so, but I take it anyway; it looks like manners matter here. "Jenna." Which he probably already knows, too.
"Before I let you in there," he states calmly in a surprisingly gentle voice, "I need to know you have the stomach for this."