Chapter 27 - MASSIMO
The distance between Caracas and us is growing as the jet takes us back home. I don't relax. I won't. Not yet. A doctor hovers near Whitford, already fussing, checking vitals, murmuring reassurances, and cataloging damage like a man afraid of what he'll find.
"Look at the boy first," I order.
It's not loud. It doesn't need to be. The doctor blinks, startled, then nods and pivots immediately. Smart man.
Amauri sits on one of the seats, legs dangling, hands folded tightly in his lap like he's afraid to touch anything.
His eyes track everything—the doctor, the equipment, me—quiet, observant, too old for ten.
Too much like me. The doctor moves gently, methodically.
Checks pupils. Palpates ribs. Notes the bruises blooming along his arms and shins.
Old fingerprints. Careless ones. My jaw locks.
"No broken bones," the doctor assures me. "Some superficial bruising. Dehydration. No signs of internal injury." He hesitates, then adds more carefully, "Psychological trauma, most likely. Nightmares. Hypervigilance. But physically, he's unharmed."
Unharmed.
The word lands wrong. Like calling a house intact after it's burned down.
"Thank you," I tell him anyway.
He nods and turns back toward Whitford, who is already complaining loudly.
"My back," Whitford snaps. "My legs—check my legs. I can't feel anything. I need to know they're intact."
He hasn't changed. The accident didn't humble him in any way. If anything, it made it worse. It's always about him.
I don't wait. If I do, I might finish the job I started ten years ago.
"Come," I invite softly, crouching in front of Amauri. I keep my voice even, calm, the way Enzo taught me to speak to skittish animals and frightened men. "There's a shower in the back. Hot water. Clean clothes."
He studies my face with interest. Interest. As if he's deciding something. After a second of deliberation, he slides off the seat and follows me without a word.
The back cabin is quieter. Smaller. Private. I open the bathroom door and show him how everything works, controls, towels, and where the clothes are laid out. Sweatpants. A soft shirt. Sneakers. Things that won't itch or bind.
"Do you need help?" He shakes his head, and I assure him, "You can take your time. No one will rush you."
He nods. After a moment of consideration, he looks up at me.
"My mummy?" he asks.
The word hits me harder than any bullet ever has.
"She's fine," the lie comes immediately. No pause. No doubt. "She's safe. And you'll talk to her soon. I promise." That part is true. I'm not so sure about the first.
He watches my face the way children do when they're deciding whether to believe a lie. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him. "Okay."
Not thank you. Not are you sure. Just okay.
I close the door gently behind him and lean my forehead against the bulkhead for half a second longer than necessary.
My son. Only a few feet from me. A little person I didn't know existed just a few days ago, and who has already taken up permanent residence in my chest. I take a few deep breaths before I turn back.
Whitford is still talking. Still demanding.
The doctor reassures him, checks his reflexes, and explains things Whitford doesn't want to hear.
I ignore them until Amauri steps out a few minutes later, hair damp, clothes clean, looking smaller somehow without the grime and fear clinging to him. He walks straight to Whitford.
"Dad?" his voice is tight with apprehension, as if he's worried about the other man but not sure how he'll be received. I ball my fists. I'm only a hairsbreadth away from killing the bastard. Amauri is the only thing stopping me.
Whitford looks at him, annoyed, distracted. "Not now," he snaps. "Can't you see I'm hurt?"
Amauri's brow furrows. He steps closer to Whitford's seat, worry etched into his face.
"He needs water," Amauri says, turning to me. "And food. He hasn't eaten properly. He gets dizzy."
My chest tightens. Maybe I can have the flight attendant add some poison to the food and drink. It takes some willpower, but finally I manage to press out, "He'll be taken care of, I'll make sure of it."
Amauri considers that. Then nods once, satisfied. He climbs back onto the seat across from Whitford, close enough to keep watch, but far enough not to be snapped at again. He buckles himself in carefully, like he's been doing it alone for a while.
I take the seat opposite him, ignoring Whitford, who is eyeing me suspiciously. Amauri glances at me, then away. Then back again.
"You don't look like the bad guys," he finally decides.
I swallow. "I guess not."
He accepts that, too. Outside the small oval window, the sky lightens, and dawn bleeds slowly into the night. And for the first time since this began, I let myself think it: I have him. I have my son.
And the ones who made him learn how to be this brave? They will pay for it in ways no doctor can ever fix.
A flight attendant appears like she's afraid to disturb something sacred. She sets down a tray—chicken nuggets cut small, fruit, juice in a glass—and withdraws without a word. Amauri brightens at the sight of food.
"Dad," he calls to Whitford. "You have to eat. And drink. You're shaking."
Whitford barely glances at him. "I need a shower," he mutters. "I smell like—Christ—"
"You can have one," I cut in. I don't look at him. "They'll help you."
I nod once towards my men. Two of them move immediately. Efficient. Professional. Whitford bristles, starts to protest, but they're already lifting him carefully, carrying him toward the rear cabin. I don't spare him another thought.
Amauri watches them go, then turns back to his food with the seriousness of someone fulfilling a responsibility. He takes a bite, chews, swallows, and drinks juice. Only then does he look at me again.
"That was scary," I say, because silence feels wrong and I have no clue what else to say.
He nods, mouth full. "Yeah."
I shift, uncomfortable. I've interrogated men. I've negotiated wars. Talking to a ten-year-old feels like walking blindfolded across a wire.
"They were scary," he continues. "I didn't understand them. But Dad did." He pauses. "He said Grandpa would get us out of there."
My chest tightens.
"Did Grandpa send you?" he asks suddenly.
I don't know why I answer the way I do. I don't calculate it. I don't soften it.
I just shake my head. "No. Your mummy did."
Amauri's face lights up instantly. He giggles. An actual giggle. Like the world hasn't taught him yet that those can be stolen.
"I knew it," he nods proudly as if this had been a given fact all along. "You think she looks like that lady, too, huh?"
I frown. "What lady?"
He gives me a look, patient, indulgent. "The one from The Mummy. Duh."
I blink. He goes back to eating like that explained everything.
"This is good," he says between bites. "I knew Mummy would come for us." He nods to himself, completely certain.
I swallow hard. "Your mummy is…" I search for a word, feel clumsy reaching for it. "Nice?"
He looks at me like I've just said the sky might be blue.
"She's the best," he confirms firmly.
And then he starts talking. Little things.
School. How she makes grilled cheese just right.
How she pretends not to notice when he sneaks snacks before dinner.
How she sings badly on purpose to make him laugh when he's sad.
His voice slows. His eyelids droop. He finishes the last bite, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and leans into the seat with a small, contented sigh.
I stand before I can think better of it.
Carefully, I unbuckle and lift him. He doesn't resist. Doesn't flinch.
Just tucks in against me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I carry him to the couch and lay him down, pulling a blanket over him, tucking it in around his shoulders the way I've seen women do. He murmurs something unintelligible and curls onto his side. He's asleep. Just like that.
I stand there longer than necessary—resisting the urge to kiss his forehead because, God help me, he looks so much like me—watching him breathe.
The rage I carried onto this plane—the tight, coiled thing that's lived in my chest since she said my son—doesn't vanish.
It doesn't dissolve into something soft or noble.
But it dims. Like a fire banked down, not extinguished.
I expected the anger to erupt when I saw him.
Thought the weight of what she kept from me would crush everything else.
Ten years stolen. Ten years of losing teeth, believing in Santa Claus, hell, watching mindless cartoons about dogs and cats.
I'll never get that back. Words I never heard him say.
Nights, I never stood guard outside his door.
That loss is still there, heavy and dull. But beneath it, I feel it: pride.
Unwelcome. Unreasonable. Real.
She did this.
Jenna brought this boy into the world. She carried him.
Protected him. Raised him into this. Quietly brave, instinctively kind, worrying about a man who barely looks at him, even while he himself is breaking.
He reminds him to eat. He makes sure the adults drink water.
He believes—without question—that his mother will come for him. That doesn't happen by accident.
I don't know a damn thing about children. I don't know what they're supposed to sound like, or how much of their parents they're meant to carry. But this boy—my boy—sounds… good. Solid. Whole, despite everything. Instinctively, I know this is her work.
The fury I aimed at her for so long suddenly has nowhere clean to land.
It changes shape. I'm still angry. I won't pretend otherwise.
She lied. She decided my place in his life without giving me the chance to choose differently.
That reckoning hasn't vanished. But it's no longer blind.
It's edged now with something dangerous: respect.