Chapter 33 MASSIMO
My head is still reeling. It's not what she said; I already knew the facts. I'd reconstructed them piece by piece, stripped them down to bones, timelines, and lies. That part I could handle.
What I wasn't prepared for was how much she'd carried alone. Ten years of grief that she never let show. Ten years of believing I betrayed her. That I left. Walked away. Chosen absence over her and the child growing inside her.
The thought hits like a blunt instrument. She thought I fucking abandoned her. The realization sits in my chest, heavy and corrosive. Not guilt, something worse. Loss compounded by misunderstanding. A wound that never had the chance to scab because it was never seen.
And then there's Amauri.
The kid just clawed his way back from hell.
Kidnapped. Imprisoned. Watched men with guns decide his fate.
And what does he do the moment he hears his mother cry?
He shields her. No hesitation. No calculation.
Just instinct. That bond between them is ferocious.
Built in the dark. Forged by fear and love and survival.
It's something to be envious of. Something that sparks jealousy, low and sharp in my gut. And something I admire the hell out of.
I force my breathing to steady. Clamp down on everything in me that wants to pull Jenna back into my arms, that wants to rage at the world for taking ten years I'll never get back.
For him, I stay calm.
"Yes," I say evenly, keeping my voice light, grounding. "Those are pancakes. And waffles."
Amauri's eyes go so wide I think they might actually fall out of his head.
"Both?" he asks, reverently.
I nod once. "Do you like those?"
His head bobs up and down so eagerly, and his eyes are so huge, it does something to my chest that I refuse to name.
"Go ahead," I tell him. "Have some."
That's all the permission he needs.
He attacks the food like a starving animal, climbing halfway onto the chair, shoveling pancakes onto his plate with zero concern for dignity or syrup distribution. It's chaotic. It's loud. It's… life.
I look up and catch Jenna watching him. She's wiping at her eyes, smiling through tears, pride radiating off her like heat.
Fierce. Exhausted. Unbroken. A deep, primal part inside me recognizes her.
This is still her. After ten years. After the betrayal she believed to be real.
After fear, and sacrifice, and surviving men who should never have touched her life, she's still the same woman who loves without half-measures.
I feel it. Not a snap. Not a return. A click.
Like something long dislocated sliding back into place.
And instead of fighting it—instead of resenting the vulnerability—I let it settle.
There are still bills to call due. Kingsley, for one. For what he did to his daughter. For the choices he forced on her when she was barely more than a girl. That debt hasn't even begun to accrue interest yet.
Mexico still waits. Enemies still breathe.
Blood will still be spilled. But for this moment—this fragile, impossible morning—I watch my son eat pancakes like the world never tried to break him.
I stand in my kitchen with the woman who should have been here all along.
Whatever was taken from us is being reclaimed.
Slowly. Brutally. And this time I'm not letting it go.
Breakfast settles into something almost normal. Plates clink softly. Syrup drips. Amauri's chewing is enthusiastic, messy, and unapologetic. The chaos of earlier fades into a hum, replaced by coffee, sunlight, and the sound of a child eating like he hasn't eaten in days.
In between bites, Amauri looks up at me. Not casually. Carefully.
"The bad men are gone?" he asks, mouth still half full, voice low like he's testing whether saying it out loud will make them come back.
The question lands square in my chest.
"Yes," I assure him. "They're gone." Praying he won't ask for details.
He watches my face the way Jenna did earlier, searching for cracks, for doubt. I keep my expression steady. Certain. He nods once, absorbing that, then goes back to his plate. Two bites later, he adds, quieter, "The helicopter was really cool."
Jenna stills beside him.
"But," Amauri continues, shoulders hunching just a little, "it was also… really, really scary."
My jaw tightens. I say nothing. I let him finish.
"I always wanted to fly in a helicopter," he continues, poking his pancake thoughtfully. "Just… not like that."
Something sharp twists under my ribs.
"Maybe," I try carefully, "I can take you one day. Just for fun." I pause, watching his eyes lift. "I have one. If you'd like."
His fork freezes midair.
"Really? You have a helicopter?" his voice jumps an octave.
Jenna shoots me a look. Sharp. Warning. "Massimo—"
"What?" I pretend innocence, lifting my hands. I can't help it. I wink at her.
"He's cool, Mummy."
She snorts despite herself.
"And," Amauri adds solemnly, "he has soldiers working for him."
That one… that one hits different. I don't correct him.
I don't glorify it either. I just nod once, slow and careful, like I understand the weight behind the words.
I feel all the empty places inside me—the quiet spaces I carved out just to survive—start to fill.
Not with rage. Not with vengeance. With something I spent ten years hating because it reminded me of what I'd lost.
Love.
Unavoidable. Relentless. Territorial in ways no empire ever was or will be.
I watch my son drown pancakes in syrup like it's his birthright. I watch Jenna watch him, pride and worry braided tight in her expression. And I let it happen. Because for the first time in a decade, the space in my chest doesn't feel hollow. It feels claimed.
After breakfast, Jenna nudges Amauri gently from his chair.
"Go take a shower," she tells him, brushing syrup from his chin. "And brush your teeth. Properly. I'll be right here."
He groans like this is the worst injustice of his life, but he slides off the chair and pads down the hall anyway, already calling back, "I did brush them, last night!"
She waits until the bathroom door closes before she turns back to me. And then everything spills.
"I need to get back to my house," the words tumble over each other. "I—I need to get it cleaned up. I need my phone. I need to call his school…" Her eyes widen as panic catches up to her. "Oh my God. His school. I haven't even called them. They'll think Amauri is tardy and—"
I step forward and place my hands on her shoulders, firm, anchoring. "Breathe, Jenna. Breathe."
She looks up at me, and those eyes—those damn eyes—hit me straight in the chest. I could get lost in them. I did, once. Lost everything.
"Jenna," I continue, and my insides tighten, "I swear to you—had I known.
About Amauri. Had I been able to… get up…
I would have taken care of you." Her breath stutters.
"Both of you, I would have never let you go.
" Her eyes well instantly, and I feel her shoulders begin to shake beneath my hands.
"You've always been the love of my life.
" There's no point hiding it now. "Always. "
She breaks then, just a little, and I pull her closer without thinking, forehead resting against hers.
"You're not alone anymore. Not ever again.
" I pull back just enough to look at her, to make sure she hears every word.
"I'll send people to your house. We'll get your things.
Amauri's things. I'll have it cleaned properly.
Your phone will be back in your hands today.
" I don't pause. I don't give her time to spiral again.
"I'll call the school. I'll tell them Amauri is sick.
I'll find a therapist for him, one who understands trauma, not someone who'll look at him like a case file. "
Her lips part, and she draws a stuttered breath.
"I will right the wrongs," I say firmly. "The ones done to you. To me. To us." Then I add, just as firmly, "But I'm telling you right now, you're not going back to that house."
Her eyes sharpen. She opens her mouth to argue. I lift a finger and rest it gently against her lips. "You and Amauri will stay here. Where you belong. With me."
She stares at me, torn between instinct, fear, and a lifetime of surviving on her own.
"I love you," I breathe softly. "I always have. And I always will." Her breath trembles. "Let me take care of you."
The words are not a command, they're a promise.
Leaving them in my penthouse is the hardest thing I've ever done. Harder than pulling a trigger. Harder than burying men who once stood at my side. Harder than waking up broken and learning the world kept spinning without me.
Amauri's laugh still echoes in my head as I step into the elevator.
Jenna's eyes—soft, terrified, hopeful—burn behind my ribs.
Every instinct I have screams to stay. To plant myself between them and the world and never move again.
But there are things that need to be done.
The doors close, and the descent begins.
I pull my phone out before the box starts moving.
First call: the school. Polite. Vague. Amauri is sick. Family emergency. Everything handled. They say they saw it on the news, and they ask if Amauri and Jenna are okay. That one touches me the most. They care about her, too. Enough to ask about her.
Second: a therapist. Not just anyone. Someone vetted. Trauma-informed. Discreet. Someone who understands that some children grow up too fast because the world doesn't give them a choice.
Third: clean up Jenna's house. Everything removed that shouldn't be there. Everything restored that can be. Packing her things and Amauri's. No traces. No reminders. Her phone recovered, charged, and delivered.
Promises kept.
By the time I reach the lobby, my voice is steel again.
The SUV door opens. I slide inside, the familiar cocoon seals shut, and just like that, emotion gets locked away.
What's left is precision. I still have an empire to run.
It matters now more than ever; it has to stand.
Because it is the wall that keeps safe what matters most to me in this world.
No.
Not most.
The only things that matter.
Jenna and Amauri.
I make the next call. Alessio. "What do we know about Joaquín?" I greet him.
"I'll know more in five minutes, something's going down. I'll let you know, Boss."
"Stay sharp. I want eyes on him at all times." I end the call and dial Enzo.
"I need you to smooth things over with the New York family," I tell him without preamble. "They're about to lose one of their biggest assets."
Enzo doesn't ask which one. He already knows.
"Kingsley," he guesses quietly.
"Yes."
"Find out what it costs," I continue. "Pay it."
A pause. Then, "Yes, boss."
The phone buzzes again before I can pocket it.
Alessio. "We got the bastard."
I lean back, eyes on the tinted window as the city slides past.
"He'll be in L.A. tomorrow. I'll have a welcoming committee ready."
A slow smile curls in my chest. Cold. Precise. "I'll be there." I glance once at the reflection of my own eyes in the glass, dark, focused, unyielding. "We'll lay a trap for him."
The SUV pulls into traffic, carrying me back into the world I rule. And this time, I'm not doing it for power. I'm doing it for family.