Chapter 38 JENNA #2
The real question is: who do I owe an explanation to?
My father? A dark chuckle escapes me. Friends who watched me build a life they never really understood?
Or do I finally get to choose without having to justify myself to anyone?
My gaze drifts to Massimo—already thinking three steps ahead—and something steadies inside me.
He isn't rushing me. He's making space. For Amauri. For me. For whatever comes next.
I don't have the answers yet. But I know this: I'm done living half a life.
Done planning around absence. Done choosing safety over truth.
Whatever this becomes—wherever we land—I want to walk into it with him and never let go.
Before I can think too deeply, I grab his hand and pull him into the kitchen.
"Sit."
He raises a brow but obeys, settling onto one of the stools, watching me with open amusement as I move around the counter on autopilot. Bread. Mustard. Pastrami. Pickles.
"You're still in love with pastrami?" I ask over my shoulder.
"As if there's any better sandwich," he replies solemnly, making me laugh. The sound is easy, familiar. God, I've missed this. I set the sandwich onto a plate and slide it across the counter to him.
"Eat," I order. "You look like you've already had a hard morning." He hesitates, just a beat. "No secrets," I remind him gently. "That goes both ways."
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
"I had a talk with Enzo this morning; he's clean," he fills me in. "He acted on what Bello told him. Nothing more."
Relief loosens something in my shoulders.
"And…" he adds carefully, "Damiano is questioning Whitford."
My stomach drops.
"Questioning," I repeat, because it's easier than saying what I'm actually thinking. I know what that word means in his world. I've lived adjacent to power long enough not to be na?ve.
I'm also acutely aware of him watching my face, gauging, measuring.
Waiting to see where I'll flinch. Where I'll fold.
If I want to be his partner in this, I can't. I have to man up, so to speak.
I have to be willing to cross lines I never thought I would.
I know he'd happily shield me, keep me comfortable, insulated, living a life of luxury and carefully curated ignorance.
But it's a path that would have to be paved with lies. And lies always rot eventually.
If I want him, really want him, I have to take all of him.
The good. The bad. And the very ugly. The thought of what that means for Amauri tightens something deep in my chest. But the truth is, I already made that choice the moment I asked Massimo to save him.
I changed my son's life irrevocably that day.
There is no world where Massimo lets me walk away with Amauri now.
And if I'm honest, I don't think I want to.
Not even for Amauri. Or maybe because of him.
Because if everything that's happened has taught me anything, it's this: there is exactly one man capable of keeping us safe in the world we're standing in now.
That man is currently eating my fucking pastrami sandwich. I swallow and straighten my spine.
"Who is Damiano?" I ask calmly.
It's not denial. It's a choice. Massimo's gaze sharpens into respect. "One of my capos. You'll meet them all."
I nod once. My hands curl briefly against the counter, then relax. "Okay."
That's it. No flinching. No retreat. He exhales slowly, like he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath. He takes a bite of the sandwich, eyes never leaving me.
"Thank you." We both know it's not for the food.
I lean against the counter, watching him eat, feeling the strange steadiness settling between us. We're not pretending anymore. We're learning how to stand in the truth, together.
"So," I ask, leaning against the counter like this is casual, like my pulse isn't already picking up. "Where are you going this afternoon?"
Massimo doesn't sugarcoat it. He never does.
"L.A. The Mexican cartel has been giving us trouble, especially a man named Joaquín.
" My stomach tightens, but I don't interrupt.
"He's been connected to some of the shit hitting my business lately," Massimo continues.
"And tomorrow morning, I'll have a long conversation with Sean. And Marianne. And Whitford."
The names land one by one, each heavier than the last. He watches me closely now. Not testing. Waiting. I feel it all at once, the fear, the anger, the urge to retreat, and the equal, opposite urge to burn everything down. My hands curl slightly against the counter to keep them from shaking.
"I want to be there." The words surprise me with how steady they sound. His brow lifts a fraction. "If they're involved," I continue, forcing myself to keep eye contact, "if my father had anything to do with what happened ten years ago, I have a right to know."
My chest tightens, my breath is shallow, but I push through it. "And if so, I have just as much revenge to dish out as you do."
There it is. Raw. Unfiltered. I'm terrified.
Of what I'll hear. Of what I'll confirm.
Of the version of myself that might emerge once the truth is spoken out loud.
But underneath the fear is something harder.
Resolve. I've spent too many years being managed, redirected, and protected from ugly truths like a fragile thing.
I'm done with that. Done being spared at the cost of my agency.
I swallow. My voice is softer now, but no less firm.
"I'm asking you not to shield me. I'm asking you not to shut me out. "
My gaze flicks, unbidden, toward the hallway, toward Amauri.
"I've already crossed the line," I add quietly. "The moment I asked you to save our son. I'm not pretending otherwise." I straighten, meeting Massimo's eyes fully now. "I'm scared," I admit. "But I'm not backing down."
Whatever comes next—whatever truths crawl out into the light—I won't face them blind. Not anymore.