Chapter 30 - JENNA
The doors slide open, and the antechamber hits me like a mirror I didn't ask for.
Max's eyebrow lifts—just a fraction—but it's enough.
He doesn't need to look me over carefully.
The evidence is everywhere. Blood—Massimo's—on my throat and collarbone.
My hair is a wrecked mess, pulled loose from its careful lie.
My pulse is still loud enough to be mistaken for guilt.
I know what I look like. I can feel it in the way my skin hums, in the ache between my thighs that hasn't caught up with reality yet.
Massimo sees it too. He growls something low and lethal at his men—Italian, sharp—and before I can open my mouth, his jacket is on me.
Heavy. Warm. It smells like him. Dark. It shouldn't feel like safety, but it does.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't explain. He just wraps it around my shoulders and steers me forward, palm firm at my back, pushing me toward the suite like he's shielding me from a firing line instead of his own people.
"Inside," he says, and I go.
Before the door closes behind us, he stops me and wipes my face with a handkerchief from his pocket. My eyes are already scanning. Couch. Hallway. Guest room.
Amauri.
"We don't want you to scare Amauri," Massimo nods to himself.
Amauri! He's not where I left him.
My heart drops so fast it feels like freefall. The room tilts. For half a second, my mind is back to when he was missing, echoing the sound of my own breathing in my ears while I counted seconds and prayed I wasn't too late.
"Amauri?" My voice breaks on his name before I can stop it.
I move before I think; panic climbs up in my throat. What kind of mother—what kind of idiot—lets herself get fucked in an elevator when her son has just been pulled out of a nightmare? What kind of woman leaves her child alone for even a minute after—
"Mummy."
The word stops me cold. I spin toward the kitchen just as he strolls out, completely unbothered by the apocalypse I've built in my head. He's barefoot. Calm. Nutella smeared across his chin like war paint. A sandwich clenched in his hand, thick and uneven and very obviously self-made.
"Here," he says again, as if he's been standing there the whole time. "I was hungry."
My knees go weak. I cross the room in three steps and drop in front of him, hands already checking—arms, shoulders, ribs—counting breaths, confirming solidity. He smells like chocolate and soap and home. Alive. Unhurt. Real.
"Oh my God," I whisper into his hair. "You scared me."
He pats my shoulder, serious as a tiny old man. "You said you'd be right back."
"I know," I choke. "I know."
He pulls back to look at me, eyes sharp, assessing. "You're crying."
I swipe at my face, laughing and sobbing at the same time. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are," he contradicts calmly. "And you're wearing his jacket."
I freeze. Behind me, I feel Massimo's presence like a weather system. He hasn't moved. He hasn't spoken. He's watching us with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Amauri follows my gaze. His eyes flick to Massimo, then back to me. Curious. Not afraid.
"He swore," Amauri adds, apropos of nothing.
Massimo exhales through his nose. "I apologized."
Amauri considers this. Then nods, solemn. "Okay."
Just like that. I stare at my son—this small, impossible person who survived hell and still believes apologies matter—and something inside me tightens so hard it hurts.
"I made a sandwich," he offers, holding it up proudly. "There's a lot of Nutella because I like it."
"I can see that," I say, brushing chocolate from his chin with my thumb. "You're a genius."
"I know." Of course he does.
I pull him into me again, slower this time, breathing him in, letting my heartbeat settle against his.
Over his head, my eyes meet Massimo's. There's blood on his knuckles.
Dried now. There's something unreadable in his expression, possession, yes, but also restraint.
Calculation. Something like… recalibration.
I don't thank him. Not for the jacket. Not for pushing me inside. Not for giving Amauri space instead of interrogations, guards, and questions.
Gratitude is complicated. So is survival.
"I'm tired," Amauri announces into my collarbone. "Can I watch TV?"
"Yes. Pick something quiet."
He nods, already turning away, sandwich in hand. "I like the space one."
"That's fine, just not that one episode with the sehlat." It always makes me cry when the cartoon character remembers his I-Chaya.
"Oh, Mummy, it's just a show," Amauri states with the worldly certainty of a kid who thinks he's seen it all and pads off toward the couch, utterly at ease, leaving chaos in his wake like it's nothing.
When I stand, I don't look away from Massimo.
"This doesn't happen again," I say quietly.
His jaw tightens. "What?"
"Leaving him," I clarify. "For answers. For fights. For you."
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe—but it's gone just as fast.
"You won't have to," he promises.
That's not reassurance. It's a statement of intent.
I step closer anyway, lowering my voice. "You don't get to decide that alone."
His gaze drops to my throat. The marks he left there. The ones I'll have to explain or continue to hide.
"I already did," his words make me shiver, and the expression in his eyes turns my blood cold.
I should argue. I should push back. I should remind him who I am and what I've survived. Instead, I glance toward the couch, where Amauri is already curled into the corner, space cartoons murmuring softly, Nutella abandoned on the table like evidence of a small, perfect rebellion.
"I'm his mother," I iterate. "That's the only thing that's non-negotiable."
Massimo nods once. "Good."
The word settles between us, heavy and loaded. His jaw is locked tight. He studies me like one might a structure under stress, eyes cutting, searching for fractures, for omissions, for the place where I might still be lying to him. It's the look he wears before violence. Or truth.
"I have to go," his voice is clipped, like his mind is already half elsewhere. Then, quieter, deadly precise, "But I need to know something first."
My spine straightens.
"Did Bello come to you," he asks, "and tell you I was in an accident?"
The question hits harder than it should. Accident. The word detonates backward through ten years of grief and fury and abandonment. My breath stutters. He didn't disappear. He didn't choose silence. He was hurt. Broken. Taken out of the world the same way I was, without consent.
But there's no time to process that now. I can feel it; this question is loaded. Not emotionally. Strategically. Whatever answer I give him is about to change something far bigger than us. All I can give him is the truth. All of it. With everything I have.
"I swear," I keep my eyes on his and my voice steady even as my chest tightens, "the first time I ever met Bello was at your mansion.
I went there looking for you. He told me to leave.
He said I wasn't welcome." His eyes darken.
His focus narrows. "The second time I saw him," I continue, "was yesterday. At your… Oven."
Silence drops between us like a blade. I want to ask him about the accident—how bad it was, how long he was gone—but I can see it in his face. His mind has already pivoted. This isn't about the past anymore. It's about now. About Amauri. About who decided what for all of us.
I want to ask about Carter, too. About where he is. What Massimo plans to do. Not now. This man doesn't multitask emotion. When he locks onto something, everything else waits, or burns.
"I didn't betray you," I say, stepping closer before I lose the nerve. I rise onto my toes, press a kiss to his mouth. Not desperate. Not apologetic. Certain. "I did what I had to do to keep our son alive."
His hands come up and stop just short of touching me.
For a heartbeat, I think he might pull me back.
That he'll say something final. Something irreversible.
Instead, his hand moves forward, and his palm rests against my cheek.
His dark eyes are full of regret and words we don't have time to say.
That's when I know how dangerous this has become.
For a moment, I melt the side of my face into his hand. He nods, and I turn back to Amauri just as the soft click of the door sounds behind me. The suite settles into a quiet that feels almost unreal after everything.
Massimo is gone.
For now.
Amauri glances over his shoulder at me from the couch. "Is he mad?"
I smooth my hand over his hair, smiling even though my chest still aches. "No, baby. He just has… work." He nods, accepting this like he accepts too many things children shouldn't have to.
"I'll be right back," I promise and make a mad dash toward the bathroom to wash up before I return to sit beside him, pulling him close.
One truth settles in with terrifying clarity: Whatever storm Massimo's about to unleash, we're standing in the middle of it.
But Amauri is here. Warm. Alive. Curled against my side like he's done a thousand times before.
And Massimo—Massimo didn't leave me. Not then.
Not ten years ago. Not the way I thought.
He didn't disappear. He was taken out of the world the same brutal way I was.
The realization is too big. Too sharp. My chest feels tight, my pulse skidding higher and higher as questions pile up faster than I can grab them.
How bad was the accident?
How long was he unconscious?
Did he wake up and look for me?
Did he know about the baby then—or only later?
How much of my life was shaped by one lie told at the wrong moment?
My heart races like it's trying to outrun the past.
Amauri shifts, pressing closer, his head settling against my ribs. The simple weight of him grounds me. Anchors me back into the present before I float apart. Right. I have responsibilities right now.
"Amauri?" I ask quietly. He hesitates. I can feel it in the way his fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He turns to me, his eyes are big, but the question coming out of him is the last I'd expected I'd have to answer now. "Why did Massimo call me his son, Mummy?"
My heart drops straight through the floor.
Not now. Not yet. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, cursing silently.
Damn you, Massimo. Throwing words like that into the air and leaving.
Of course, this is what Amauri latches onto.
Of course, this is the thread his mind grabs and won't let go.
Guilt pricks, sharp and immediate. I owe him the truth.
I know that. But not like this. Not when his world is still wobbling on its axis.
I smooth my hand over his hair, buying time. "That's… a big conversation," I say carefully. "One we'll have. I promise. Just not tonight."
He studies my face, serious, too perceptive. "Okay."
Bless him for that. I try to redirect, gently. "Do you want to talk about what happened? About how scary it was?"
He looks at me for a long moment, and in that second, I see it, his face, his expression, the tilt of his mouth when he thinks.
"He looks like me."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Ah, shit.
He takes another bite of his sandwich and chews thoughtfully. Nutella smears a little more across his chin.
"It was scary," he admits. "Dad was really, really scared," he adds, like he's reporting the weather. "I held his hand."
Fuck.
Of course he did.
My little man.
I pull him closer, pressing my lips to the top of his head, breathing him in like oxygen. "You were very brave," I whisper. "I'm so proud of you."
"Is Dad at the hospital?"
I swallow. I have no idea where Carter is, nor do I… care. Not even a little bit. If that makes me a bitch, fine. I can live with that. "Yeah, baby, they're making sure he's okay." I lie.
He shrugs, but he leans into me, accepting the words. Carter went to the hospital quite often; it's nothing new for Amauri and nothing scary. Carter always came back okay.
We sit there like that—him eating, me holding him—while the world outside this suite rearranges itself without my consent.
Answers are coming. I can feel it. Storms. Truths that won't stay buried.
But for now, my son is safe in my arms. And for now, that is enough.
I rock him gently, feeling the steady weight of him against me, the warmth, the proof that he's real and here and mine.
His chewing slows. His eyelids droop. He's so small for everything he's already survived.
I press my cheek to his hair and let myself believe—just for this moment—that holding him is enough to keep the world out.
I feel something wet between my thighs and know I need to go take a shower.
The quick wash-up helped, but it wasn't enough.
Unfortunately, for the life of me, I can't summon the will to leave Amauri on the couch.
The stickiness between my legs reminds me of another uncomfortable truth, though.
I'm not on birth control. I didn't need to be during the last ten years.
Ten years ago, I'd just started taking them when…
well, we all know how that ended up. His name is Amauri.
Somehow, the thought of another pregnancy doesn't scare me, though.
Not even a little bit. Not only because of Massimo, but because I know I'm changing.
I'm becoming stronger with every moment.
I'm turning into the version of Jenna I was always supposed to be.
But somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the relief, something tightens. Because safety, I'm learning, is never permanent. It's something you borrow. And sooner or later, someone always comes to collect.