Chapter 26 - JENNA #2
I don't rush to answer. I force myself not to look away from his face, not to soften my gaze, not to offer pity or revulsion or polite avoidance.
I've worked with disfigured people before, men and women broken by accidents, illness, violence.
I learned early that most of them wanted one thing above all else: to be seen as normal. To be spared the stare.
Enzo is not one of those men. He wants me to look. He wants to see whether I'll blink. So I let my eyes travel—slowly, deliberately—over the minefield of his face. I don't rush it. I don't apologize with my expression. I don't pretend not to notice. Then I look back at his eyes.
"I'm probably not cut from the same material as you," I choose my words carefully. "But a mother can take a lot of shit when her child is in danger." I pause, then add, softer but steadier, "More than she ever thought she could."
Something shifts. It's subtle. A minute easing in his posture. The smallest nod, almost imperceptible, like a lock clicking open.
"Alright," Enzo says.
He steps aside and gestures toward the door.
"Welcome," he adds dryly, "to the part of the world most people pretend doesn't exist."
The door opens. Heat breathes out to meet me. I step inside. I thought I was prepared. I really did. I'd braced myself for blood, for screams, for something crude and cinematic. This is worse.
The smell hits first, burned flesh, melted plastic, scorched fabric.
It crawls into my throat and sits there, thick and oily, refusing to move.
My eyes sting. My stomach flips hard enough that I swallow twice just to stay upright.
The ovens dominate the space. Wide open.
Roaring. Fire rolls inside them like a living thing, hungry, relentless, utterly indifferent.
The heat presses against my skin immediately; sweat blooms at my temples, under my arms, along my spine.
The air hums. The flames breathe. There is something horrifyingly beautiful about it.
The way the fire moves. The way it consumes without judgment. Mesmerizing. Hypnotic. I hate myself a little for noticing.
Then I see him. The man on the stretcher is tied above a corpse. The living man's chest heaves violently, and sweat pours down his face, soaking his shirt. His wrists strain uselessly against restraints.
His feet, my breath stutters. Gone. Not entirely, but close enough. Melted leather fused to skin. Plastic embedded where bone should be. Blackened flesh blistering upward, angry and wet. The damage crawls higher than I expect; the heat has done its work slowly. Methodically.
His eyes are what threaten to undo me. Not monstrous. Not cruel. He's terrified. Wild, frantic eyes dart between us; his pupils are blown wide, reflecting the raw animal panic of someone who understands exactly what's happening and knows he can't stop it.
He's young. Too young. Early twenties, maybe. Barely more than a boy. Pity wallows up inside me, but then I think of the panic I felt, the panic Amauri felt and is likely still feeling. And everything inside me locks. My pulse roars in my ears.
"If you want to leave," Enzo offers quietly beside me, his voice steady and professional, "no one will think less of you."
I shake my head. The movement is small, but it's final. I step forward instead. The heat intensifies immediately, licking at my skin, soaking my clothes. Sweat beads along my upper lip. My insides feel like ice and fire at the same time, cold dread wrapped in burning fury.
This man helped take Amauri. This man stood in my home. This man is part of why my son cried himself to sleep somewhere far away from me. And, up close, all I see is fear. Not innocence. Not absolution. Just fear. I stop a few feet away. Close enough that he can see my face clearly.
"Has he said anything yet?" I want to know, my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "About who sent him? Who ordered the kidnapping?"
The man's eyes snap to mine. Recognition flashes there. Something ugly and desperate. He knows who I am.
"No," Enzo answers before the man can speak. "He's been… resistant."
The flames roar louder, as if on cue. The man whimpers.
A broken, animal sound that twists low in my gut.
He's shaking now, teeth chattering despite the heat, tears cutting clean lines through soot on his cheeks.
I'm not a medical professional, but I know that if he goes into shock, he won't be of any use to us.
I don't look away. I can't. Because this, this is the truth of it.
This is what my son was dragged into. This is the world that reached into my life and took him like a bargaining chip.
I don't know yet what I'm going to ask. But I know one thing with terrible clarity: I am done being shielded from the ugly parts of this war.
I don't rush him. I can tell that surprises Enzo.
Men like this are used to shouting. To fists.
To pain that comes fast and loud. They steel themselves for it, build walls around it.
But silence—real silence—gets inside. Instead, I step closer until the heat kisses my skin, until sweat beads along my collarbone.
He watches me with those frantic eyes, his chest is heaving, his breath hitches every time the flames surge.
I crouch. Bring myself down to his level.
He flinches, just a little, when our eyes meet.
"You're young," I state quietly. My voice doesn't echo. It doesn't need to. "I expected someone older," I continue, almost conversational. "Someone who'd already ruined their soul enough to sleep through this."
His lips tremble. He shakes his head once, violently, like he's trying to clear it. I glance at the tattoo on his neck again. Let my gaze linger there.
"You came into my house," I keep my voice calm and soft. "You walked past my child's room. You took him."
His breathing stutters. "I didn't, senora, I swear, it wasn't me."
I don't believe him. "I want you to understand something," I go on, steady as a metronome. "What's happening to you right now? This isn't revenge."
That makes him look at me properly.
"This is consequence." I straighten slowly and gesture toward the oven, not dramatically, just enough. "These men," I say, not looking at Enzo, but knowing he hears me, "they know how to hurt bodies." I look back at the boy. "I don't."
His eyes widen. Confused. Hope flickers there for half a second.
"And that," I add gently, "is why I'm the one talking to you."
I lean in, close enough that he can see the tears in my eyes, not falling, never falling, but there. Real. Burning.
"My son cried when you took him," my voice breaks slightly. The words scrape out of me, raw now. "Not loud. He's not loud when he's scared. He goes quiet. Did you notice that?"
A sound breaks out of him, half sob, half denial. "I never saw your son, senora, I swear."
I ignore it. Even if he wasn't with the men who broke into my house, he's still a man who knew about it and chose to do nothing.
"I don't know your name," I continue, relentless but soft.
"But someone does. Someone who sent you.
Someone who will sleep tonight believing you're strong enough to keep their secrets.
" I shake my head slowly. "They're wrong. "
I reach out, not to touch him, but close enough that he feels the intention.
"You don't owe them anything," I point out.
"They won't save you. They won't remember you.
But if you tell me who ordered this—if you say the name—I will make sure one thing happens.
" His eyes lock on mine, desperate now. "I will make sure your mother knows what happened to you," I promise quietly. "And why."
That does it. It's like the last beam inside him collapses.
"No," he sobs. "Please—please—"
"You don't have to be brave," I tell him. "You just have to be honest."
Silence stretches. Then his mouth opens. And the truth finally starts to bleed out. Enzo shifts beside me, and something like awe tightens his scarred face. Not because of what I did, but because of what I didn't do.
I don't look back at him. I keep my eyes on the boy. And I listen to him break. Not all at once. Not theatrically. It's a slow collapse, like something inside him has finally given up the pretense of strength.
"Joaquín," he whispers hoarsely. "Joaquín Beltrán."
The name doesn't mean anything to me. I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch Enzo's eye. A silent question. Does that mean anything?
Enzo nods once. Grave. Confirming. Yeah. It does.
Good. I look back at the boy, because that's what he is, really. A boy who made a series of terrible choices and ended up here. He's shaking now, his breath is coming in ragged pulls, and his eyes are glassy with pain and fear.
"You did good," I tell him. The words surprise him. They surprise me too. "Thank you," I add, because it matters. Because I said I would treat him like a person, not an object.
I step closer. Every instinct screams at me not to touch him, not to cross that final line, but I ignore it. I force my hand to move. I brush a kiss to his forehead. It's brief. Almost ceremonial. His eyes fill.
"Tell me your name," I request softly.
He swallows. "Luis," he whispers. "Luis Herrera."
I commit it to memory.
"I'll tell your mother," I promise. My voice doesn't waver. "I'll tell her that at the very end, you did a good deed."
Something breaks in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or absolution. Or just the knowledge that someone will remember him as more than a mistake. I straighten. I don't look at him again. I turn to Enzo and nod. Just once. No words. He understands.
When I step back, the heat swells behind me.
The roar grows louder. I don't watch. I don't need to.
The decision has already been made, and that's the part that changes me, not the death, but the authority of choosing it.
I walk out of the room with my spine straight, my hands steady, my heart beating slow and hard.