Chapter 34 JENNA #2
We put Hammie back in his cage together, fresh bedding smoothed down, water bottle checked twice. Amauri gives him a sunflower seed as a peace offering, then drags his toys back to the carpet and settles in front of the TV.
Only when I'm sure he's absorbed do I open Massimo's laptop. My hands are steady. My heart is not. I pull up the old ledger entry, the one I've never been able to explain away, no matter how hard I tried. It sits there, neat and bureaucratic, the kind of line item designed not to invite scrutiny.
Northstar Advisory Group.
I copy the name and start digging again.
At first, it's nothing. A clean website.
Vague language. Corporate buzzwords. Strategy.
Risk mitigation. Advisory services. Then the cracks appear.
A lawsuit quietly settled and scrubbed. A former consultant charged with obstruction.
Shell companies that dissolve and reappear under new names.
Security contracts that don't quite add up.
My pulse picks up. I dig deeper. And then I see it.
Kingsley.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just… present. Pulling strings. A charge dropped here. An investigation redirected there. A judge who suddenly recused himself. A problem that vanished overnight.
Northstar didn't survive on its own.
My father kept them afloat.
Worse, he pulled them out of deep trouble. The kind that would've buried a smaller man. The kind that requires influence, not money. I sit back slowly, the room suddenly too quiet. I don't know exactly what this means yet. Not fully. But I know enough.
I close the laptop just as Amauri laughs at something on the TV, bright and unbothered. My hands start to shake. Because whatever this is, it's bigger than me. And there is only one person who understands this world well enough to tell me what I'm looking at.
I don't call him—yes, I saw his name and number programmed into my phone, right on top.
Every instinct I have wants to, but I don't. He's at work.
Whatever that means in Massimo's world. I keep myself busy instead.
Too busy. We make lunch out of snacks. We watch half a movie and abandon it for a game.
I help Amauri with homework that he insists on doing even though no one asked him to.
The sun dips low. The city lights come on. Then the door opens.
"Hey," Massimo calls easily, like this is any other evening. "I'm back. Are you guys hungry? We can order something from the kitchen—or go out."
Amauri doesn't even answer. He launches himself at Massimo with the kind of force only a ten-year-old can manage, arms wrapping around his waist like he's afraid he might disappear again.
"I got Hammie back!" he announces, breathless. "Do you want to see him? Have you seen my dad? Is he okay?"
The questions tumble out all at once. Massimo stills, just for a fraction of a second. His eyes meet mine over Amauri's head. We need to talk about that.
"Your… dad is okay," Massimo chooses his words carefully, one hand coming up to steady Amauri, the other resting at his back. "He's recovering."
Amauri nods, satisfied enough for now. "Good." Then—already moving on—"What can we eat? Mom and I had chips and cookies and pretzels."
"Whatever you pick," Massimo sends an apologetic smile at me.
That seems to delight him. Amauri grabs Massimo's hand and drags him toward the guest bedroom without another word. "Come on, I want to show you Hammie."
I follow, quietly. Amauri launches into a full demonstration, hamster ball, cage setup, food, and toys. "Look," he says proudly. "Isn't he cute? He can stuff his mouth like this—" He pantomimes dramatically, cheeks puffed out.
Massimo smiles. Really smiles. It looks strange on him. Like a muscle he hasn't used in a while.
"Amauri," I interrupt gently, catching his eye. "Can you give Massimo a minute? He's probably going to want to take a shower."
He considers this, glancing at Massimo, then at me. "Sure. Yeah." He brightens. "But don't forget about Hammie."
"I won't," Massimo promises.
For a heartbeat or two, an awkward silence ensues, then Massimo excuses himself to take a shower. I sigh in relief that he caught my cue. I give him a minute, then make an excuse to Amauri and follow. This is the best way to talk alone for a few minutes.
When I step into Massimo's suite, he isn't there. But I can hear the shower. Steam curls into the bedroom, warm and faintly scented, and before I can stop myself—before common sense catches up—I follow the sound.
Really? I think. Really? He must not have understood the cue that I wanted to talk. The shower was just a ruse. I push the bathroom door open.
And freeze.
"Oh my God—you're naked," I blurt, heat rushes straight to my face. Massimo whirls, startled, his eyes flash wide for half a second before instinct kicks in. "Shit—" He reaches for a towel, grabbing it off the rack and wrapping it around his waist in one sharp movement. "Didn't you—Jenna, get out."
But it's too late. I saw.
Not him—him—but what his body carries.
Scars.
So many of them.
Long ones. Jagged ones. Pale seams cut across muscle and skin like a map of violence. His shoulder. His ribs. His side. Marks that don't fade because they were never meant to.
"Massimo," I breathe, the word slips out without permission.
His jaw locks. "Get out," he hisses, turning slightly, angling his body away from me like he can undo what I've already seen. Giving me a view of more scars on his side. I take a step closer.
"Was that…" My voice wavers. "Was that because of the accident?"
He reaches for the towel, pulling it tighter, trying to cover what can't be hidden. "I don't need your pity," he snaps. "Get. Out."
"What happened?" I ask softly. "What did they do to you?"
That stops him. Not because he wants it to, but because the question lands somewhere deeper than anger. He exhales sharply, hands braced on the counter now, shoulders rigid.
"You weren't supposed to see this," he mutters.
I don't touch him. I don't crowd him. I just stand there, heart in my hands, staring at the evidence of everything he never told me.
"I thought you left," I say quietly. "And all that time you were—"
"Stop," he cuts in, voice rough. "I survived. That's all you need to know."
But his reflection in the mirror tells a different story. This isn't about survival. It's about what it cost him. Finally, I understand that the man who walked back into my life didn't just lose ten years. He paid for them in flesh and blood.
"I'm not here to pity you," I assure him gently. "I just… didn't know."
He finally looks at me. For a split second, the anger fractures.
Then he turns away.
"Get out, Jenna," he says again, quieter now. "Please."
I back out slowly, closing the door behind me with shaking hands. But the image stays with me. So does the knowledge that whatever we're rebuilding now stands on scars, not ashes.