Chapter 39 MASSIMO
The jet hums beneath my feet like a living thing.
Not loud. Not showy. Controlled. Purpose-built.
Leather, brushed steel, low light that never quite lets you forget you're airborne.
I've always liked that about planes; you're never allowed the illusion of permanence.
Everything is temporary at thirty thousand feet.
I loosen my cuff and settle into the seat opposite Alessio. The city lights of Las Vegas fall away beneath us, shrinking into glitter, then darkness. Home recedes. Responsibility doesn't.
The flight attendant pours me a drink without asking. Stagg bourbon. Neat. She's been with me long enough to know to keep herself unobtrusive. The first sip burns slow and deep, familiar as muscle memory. It settles my nerves without dulling my edges. I need both this afternoon.
We're heading to L.A. with a small army and a narrow window.
Joaquín thinks he's clever. He thinks proximity equals safety.
He's wrong. California isn't neutral ground; it's a marketplace.
And I owe favors for Enzo contacting Antonio DeLuna—one of the New York capos—as a courtesy to let him know a shitstorm is about to land in his territory.
And to assure him that I'll clean up the mess.
Alessio spreads the tablet between us, satellite images glowing faintly in the dim cabin. "He'll be at the Avalon warehouse by nightfall," he points at a set of nondescript buildings. "Light security. He's been moving like he doesn't expect resistance."
I snort quietly. "They never do."
We go over the plan, intercept, isolate, and collapse the perimeter before he realizes he's already lost. It's clean.
Efficient. My kind of work. Alessio talks.
I listen, ask the right questions, and make small adjustments that turn good plans into fatal ones.
But even as we talk, my mind keeps circling back.
Jenna.
The way she stood there in my kitchen, spine straight, fear present but not steering.
The way she didn't flinch when I told her about Whitford.
The way she claimed her place without asking permission.
She won't just be a queen. She'll be a partner.
The realization settles in my chest, heavy and undeniable.
I've ruled alone for a long time. Trusted men.
Relied on loyalty, fear, and structure. It worked.
It always has. But watching her piece things together—watching her see what I missed, connect what I dismissed—made something shift.
Without her, Kingsley would still be a shadow.
Oh, he would've died eventually—men like him always do—but Bello and my uncle, the lie I built an empire on?
That rot would've stayed buried. I owe her. Not in blood. Not in favors. In truth.
That doesn't mean I'll show her everything. Some ugliness serves no purpose but to stain. But tomorrow—tomorrow she has a right to be there. To hear it from their mouths. To look her husband in the eye when the illusion finally breaks. I take another sip of bourbon.
Alessio finishes his rundown and leans back. "You okay, boss?"
I glance at him, then out the window. The sky is endless. Indifferent.
"She's stronger than I thought," I say finally.
He nods once. "It sounds like it. I'd like to meet her."
"You will."
The plane dips slightly as we adjust course. Somewhere behind us, men check weapons, review routes, and prepare to do what they do best. Joaquín will learn that he miscalculated. But the real reckoning is waiting for morning.
I roll the glass between my fingers, watching the amber catch the light.
The jet touches down without ceremony. No applause.
No wasted movement. The engines idle while doors open and men move.
We don't announce ourselves. Black SUVs swallow us whole and spit us back out miles later, closer to the industrial spine of the city where the rules thin, and the lights stop pretending.
The warehouse sits exactly where Alessio said it would.
Concrete. Corrugated steel. Sodium lights buzz overhead like insects.
The kind of place people use when they don't want to be seen or remembered.
I study it from the shadow of the SUV, taking in exits, sightlines, the lazy rhythm of men who think they're safe.
We receive confirmation from one of our men that Joaquín is inside.
"Positions," I murmur.
Men peel off soundlessly, becoming angles and blind spots.
Time compresses. Every sense sharpens. This is the moment before a storm breaks, when the air goes still, and everything holds its breath.
The first man dies without knowing why. A shape in a doorway, a soft crack, a body folding in on itself before it hits the ground.
Another goes down near the loading bay, reaching for a weapon he never gets to use.
There's no shouting. No chaos yet. Just the quiet removal of obstacles.
Ultimately, someone notices. A shout cut short. A gunshot answered immediately. That's our cue to move.
I breach with two men, muzzle up, eyes tracking.
Inside, it looks like any other warehouse.
Crates are stacked high, shadows everywhere.
Movement flickers and disappears. One man fires wildly.
The shot slams into my chest hard enough to knock the breath clean out of me.
The impact throws me backward a step, and then Alessio is there, a solid hand at my shoulder, keeping me upright before I can even think to fall.
Fucking Kevlar vest. It's not the first time one of them saved my ass. I suck in a sharp breath. Pain is already blooming across my ribs, hot and deep. That's going to be one motherfucker of a bruise.
I don't give the asshole time to celebrate.
I raise my weapon and return fire, controlled, precise.
The man jerks once and drops, the sound of his body hitting concrete lost beneath the ringing in my ears.
For half a second, I do nothing but breathe.
Then I straighten, roll my shoulders, and nod once at Alessio.
"Keep moving," I order.
Pain is temporary. This isn't. Nothing important got hit.
These motherfuckers won't get a second shot at me. Gunfire blooms and dies in short, controlled bursts. No wasted ammo. No hesitation. They scatter, then try to regroup, but panic makes them stupid. Panic makes men predictable. More bodies hit the floor, one by one.
I spot Joaquín at the far end of the warehouse, trying to slip through a side office. He looks smaller than I expected. Older. Desperation has a way of shrinking men.
"Take everyone else," I order calmly into the comm. "He's mine."
He makes it three steps before someone clips his leg. He goes down hard, skidding across concrete, screaming now, finally loud enough to hear. By the time I reach him, the warehouse is quiet again. The quiet of death.
My men secure the perimeter while Joaquín crawls backward, blood slicking the floor beneath him. His eyes lock on mine and widen with recognition.
"Massimo," he breathes, like saying my name might save him.
Which it won't. I crouch in front of him, take in the wreckage, the ruin. Everyone else in the warehouse is dead. Exactly as planned. I grip Joaquín by the collar and haul him upright just enough to meet my gaze.
"This is where you stop running," I tell him quietly.
He curses something I don't bother translating. I stand and gesture once. "Bag him."
Hands descend. Joaquín is dragged away, still alive, still breathing, still very much conscious. The warehouse will be empty by morning. Cleaned. Sanitized. Forgotten.
I step back into the afternoon, blood on my shoes. My mind is already moving ahead to later this evening. Jenna, Amauri.
"We'll interrogate him on the plane, then drop him somewhere over Arizona," I order, and don't bother watching as someone patches Joaquín up long enough so he can answer some questions, then throws him in the back of one of the SUVs.
There is no sense in wasting time here. I have a hot date planned.