Chapter 29 - MASSIMO
Whatever I thought this moment would feel like, I was wrong. I expected anger. Vindication. Control snapping back into place like a blade sliding home. Instead, something feral coils low in my chest.
She's on the couch, curled around him like gravity itself bends toward her. Amauri fits against her the way he was built to, small body molded into the curve of her arms, fingers knotted in her shirt like letting go might break the world again.
She looks exactly like she did ten years ago when I found her, shattered, furious, and alive.
Fuck, she's under my skin. Again.
The kid loves her. That much is obvious.
The way he clings. The way he keeps touching her as if she might vanish if he doesn't anchor her there.
Every laugh, every breath, every quiet reassurance comes from her.
She didn't just keep him alive. She raised him right. That lands harder than anything else.
I spent hours with him on the plane. Hours watching him worry about the wrong man.
Watching him call Whitford dad with a loyalty that didn't belong to him.
Every time the word left his mouth, it tested a restraint I hadn't realized I possessed.
I didn't kill Whitford for two reasons: I needed answers, and Amauri was watching.
But make no mistake, every second that man stole my place is permanently carved into me, and I'll make him bleed for it.
Now it's quiet. No blood. No shouting. No bargaining. Just the three of us. The way it should have been all along. The realization hits me clean and brutal: I'm never letting this go.
Not him.
Not her.
Not again.
I don't care why she didn't come to me. I don't care what lies she believed or who fed them to her. I don't care if she loves me or I her. Love is irrelevant.
What matters is claim.
What matters is that my son is here—breathing, warm, safe—and she is the axis around which everything in him revolves. Which makes her essential. Non-negotiable. A fixed point in a world that bends to my will.
I want what was stolen from me. I want my child. And I want her. Not because she's weak. Not because she needs saving. Because she's strong enough to survive me, and stubborn enough to try to walk away again.
She won't.
Not this time.
She made her choice ten years ago without knowing all the pieces. That mistake won't repeat itself. I'll make sure of it. She will stand at my side. At my son's side. In my world. Whether she wants to or not.
Because whatever she thinks this is—whatever illusion of freedom she still clings to—there is one truth she will learn again, slowly and inexorably: I keep what's mine.
And she has always been mine.
But now's not the time for lessons.
I don't move closer. I don't interrupt. I don't claim anything.
I give them this. Amauri is already half-asleep against her, breath soft, trusting in a way that hurts to witness.
Jenna's eyes are glassy with exhaustion, her hand rhythmically stroking his hair like the motion itself is required to keep him here.
They need this moment. They've earned it.
I step back quietly, the way you do when you understand that presence can be an intrusion.
A few hours of sleep. A locked door. Guards doubled. Silence.
I'll give them that.
I still have fires burning elsewhere. Whitford is secured in one of my warehouses. Medical staff on standby, not for comfort, for longevity. He'll live as long as I need him to. No longer.
Enzo's called a meeting. Gabe is digging into Bello.
Threads are being pulled, loyalties weighed, old names dragged into the light whether they like it or not.
Alessio is checking the streets for word of Joaquin.
Damiano is vetting the employees at the club where Mia was killed.
The noose is tightening; Joaquín just doesn't know it yet.
I turn toward the door. I should leave now. I should go to Enzo. To the meeting. To the war still unfolding outside this room. This moment is theirs.
Then she looks up. Just once. Her lips move without sound.
Thank you. Something in my chest cracks.
Not softly. Not cleanly. Ten years of silence don't evaporate with gratitude.
They sharpen. I stop. Slowly, I turn back.
I look her dead in the eyes and throw ten years of fury into her face. "You knew."
Jenna stiffens. Her hand stills in Amauri's hair. "Knew what?"
"You knew I was alive." With every word, I take a step forward. If she had any sense, she would run. "You knew I hadn't disappeared. Bello came to you. He told you I couldn't come because I was hurt."
The words land like a grenade. Her breath catches. Just a fraction. Enough.
"And you still married him," I continue, heat bleeding into my tone despite myself. "You still let another man put his name on my son."
Amauri shifts, frowning. He pushes himself upright, half-awake now.
"Massimo," Jenna says, warning threaded into my name.
Too late.
"You don't get to look at me like I abandoned you," I snap. "You don't get to act like I left, when you were the one who chose—"
"Stop." It's not her. It's him.
Amauri is fully awake now, standing on the couch between us, small fists clenched, jaw set with an expression far too familiar. "Don't say that to my mummy."
The room freezes. I look at him. I don't see any fear in his expression; he's not shrinking from me. There is just plain defiance. Pure and bright and untrained.
"Sit down," I say automatically.
"No," he says, planting his feet wider. "You're being mean."
The word shouldn't hit like it does.
Jenna reaches for him. "Amauri—"
"She didn't do anything wrong," he insists, his voice shaking but steady. "She came for me. She always comes."
Silence swells, thick and merciless. I feel it then, something I didn't expect.
Underneath the anger. Guilt. This isn't a fight that should be waged in front of a kid.
It's too late now, though. The war has started; I can see it in the fury burning in her eyes.
I swallow, jaw tightening, forcing my hands to unclench at my sides.
"Stop." This time, it's Jenna who gives the command. "Both of you."
Her gaze locks on me, unflinching, the kind of look that doesn't ask; it ends things. Then she turns to Amauri, her expression softening without losing authority.
"Amauri," her tone is gentle. He looks up at her immediately. "Do me a favor and go into that room." She nods toward the guest bedroom she's been using. "Turn on the TV so Mummy and Da—" she hesitates, just a fraction, "—Massimo can talk. Grown-up talk, okay?"
Amauri doesn't seem to notice the stumble, but I do.
He nods, obedient but alert, already halfway to the room.
The pause is small. Almost nothing. And it tells me more than she ever could with words.
This isn't new for him. The way he moves.
The way he accepts it without fear or confusion.
This is routine. Arguments redirected. Tension managed.
A child who knows when adults need to be separated from their worst impulses.
Which means she and Whitford fought like this.
Often enough that Jenna learned exactly what to say.
Often enough that Amauri learned exactly what to do.
The realization lands heavy. Not because she handled it wrong.
But because she handled it well. And because it means I wasn't the first man she had to protect our son from.
"No, wait. I'm leaving. I'm not doing this here." Amauri pauses at my words. "Not in front of him. Not now."
At least that instinct still works. Amauri watches me closely, suspicious but curious. Like he's filing me away. I meet his gaze. "We'll talk later," I tell him. Not her. Him.
He nods once. Serious. Evaluating.
I turn and leave before I say something I can't take back.
Behind me, I hear her exhale, shaky, furious, alive.
I refuse to look at her as I stride toward the door.
I hear her whisper something to Amauri, but I ignore it.
I just need to get out of here. Outside, Max takes one look at my expression and nods at one of the men to call the elevator. The door behind me clicks open. Jenna.
"Oh no, you don't get to walk away from me like that."
I freeze. Her voice isn't loud, but it doesn't need to be. It carries. Controlled fury. The kind that doesn't burn out fast, it waits.
"You said you sent Bello to tell me you were hurt," she fires at me. "To tell me you were alive."
Max and the guards are not even pretending not to listen.
I glare at them, and they finally turn away.
Thankfully, the elevator arrives. The doors open, and I grab Jenna's wrist and pull her inside before anyone else can think to follow.
I press Lobby, give it a second, then hit the emergency stop before the box can even move.
But the doors are closed. Silence slams down.
I turn on her, every instinct screams at me to regain control of a situation that's suddenly tilting sideways.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demand.
Her eyes are blazing. Not scared. Not wavering. Furious in a way that has nothing to do with weakness.
"Well, let me tell you something," she continues. "The first time I met Bello was when I came to your mansion. I stood at your gates like an idiot who still believed in answers."
My chest tightens.
"He had me removed," she snaps. "Told me you didn't want to see me. Told me to go home and to never come back."
The words don't land all at once. They stack. Slow. Relentlessly so. I'm suddenly aware of how loud my own breathing is in the enclosed space.
"That's impossible," the words flow out automatically.
She laughs once. Sharp. Ugly. "Is it?"
My mind is spinning now, gears grinding, timelines snapping into place and not aligning. "You're telling me that Bello told you I didn't want to see you."
"Yes."
"After the attack."
"What attack?"