Chapter 41 Massimo
The next morning…
Morning comes sharp and unkind. Max is already on Amauri duty when we leave: quiet competence, eyes alert, a presence that reassures without hovering.
Esther will be back later. Everything is covered.
Everything except this. Jenna slides into the car beside me without hesitation.
The door closes. The city starts to move.
"Are you sure you want to be there for this?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
She nods. "No," her words contradict the gesture. "But I need to."
I lace my fingers through hers, feel the steady warmth, the faint tremor she doesn't try to hide. "If it gets too much—"
"I'll tell you," she assures me. "I'll leave."
I glance at her. "You don't have to prove anything."
She exhales, almost a laugh. "Don't worry. I won't make a scene in front of your men."
That earns her a look. "I'm more worried about you," I clarify.
She meets my gaze, then says quietly, "Call me."
I frown. "What?"
"That's what he said," she continues, eyes forward now. "After he delivered me to the coach. He leaned in and said, Call me."
The car goes very still. She shakes her head once, as if clearing it. "Trust me. Whatever you're planning for the bastard, it's more than deserved."
Silence settles between us, thick but not strained. I keep my hand in hers, grounding myself in the present, even as my mind drifts backward. To yesterday. To Joaquín.
He screamed. He begged. He broke in all the expected ways. But when he said the name—El Recaudador, The Collector—everything changed. His bravado didn't just crack. It evaporated. His hands started to shake. Not from pain. From memory.
"You don't understand," he whispered hoarsely. "You don't know him."
I leaned closer, certain he was finally breaking. He shook his head, eyes glassy with something that was more than terror of death.
"You don't. You think you're the monster in this room. You're not."
That made me pause. Intrigued, I made him continue.
"He doesn't rush. He waits. He collects."
I leaned in closer, letting him feel my breath. "Everyone bleeds," I told him.
Joaquín shook his head. "Not him."
That wasn't fear of death. That was fear of memory. He was more terrified of the man who wasn't in the room than of me, standing right there, breaking him piece by piece. That kind of devotion—or leverage—doesn't come cheap. It's personal. And personal is dangerous.
There's always a bigger threat. I've lived long enough to know that. But this one doesn't feel like ambition or territory or power for power's sake. This feels like a man who's been waiting for a name to come back around: Mine.
The car slows as we near the perimeter.
Jenna shifts, studying my face. "You've been quiet."
I glance at her. "Thinking."
"About yesterday." It's not a question. The woman knows me too well, so I don't even try to deny it. "You don't have to protect me from it," she adds gently. "I want to be part of this."
I squeeze her hand once. "You already are."
She nods, resolute. Outside, my world waits, concrete, steel, men who understand orders without questions.
Inside the car, something else settles into place.
Partnership. Whoever El Recaudador is, whatever he thinks he's collecting, whatever ghosts he thinks he can cash in, he's welcome to come and try.
I don't run. And I don't lose what's mine.
"Let me talk to you about this later," I look into her eyes, letting her know I mean it. "Let's get this done first."
She nods, but the color has drained from her face. Too pale. Too still. I should have made her stay home. The thought hits hard and late, the way regret always does. She turns to me, her eyes lift, steady despite everything.
"Call me," she repeats as if she can read my mind.
The words land like a strike to the chest. For a split second, I'm not here.
I'm not walking into another reckoning. I'm back there—years ago—in a locker room that smelled like bleach and blood and panic.
I see her shaking hands. The way she can't stop apologizing.
The way I hold her while she cries until there is nothing left in her but resolve.
I was there.
I saw the aftermath.
I helped her clean up.
I helped her get rid of the body.
That was the night everything changed. The night lines were crossed that can never be uncrossed. She doesn't blink now. The fire in her eyes is still there. It always was.
Her lips press together, satisfied, and for a moment I see it clearly: this is not a woman who needs shielding.
This is a woman who knows exactly what the cost is and chooses to stand anyway.
I squeeze her hand one more time before letting go.
We step out of the car. Steel. Concrete.
Men waiting for orders. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought settles in with grim amusement: Nobody had better ever ask how we met.
Because if they do, there's no version of that story that doesn't end in silence or blood.
The Oven is already humming when we enter.
Low heat. Controlled. Clinical. Everything exactly where it should be.
Whitford is strapped to the gurney in the center of the room, wrists and ankles bound, head immobilized.
The dead body beneath him—some man scheduled for today's burn—serves its purpose without needing explanation.
Consequence, made literal. The message is unmistakable.
Marianne and Sean sit facing each other, chairs bolted to the floor, ropes tight around their torsos.
Gags in their mouths. Terror has already stripped them of composure.
Sean has sweated through his collar, and Marianne is pale and shaking, her eyes darting wildly as if escape might materialize if she looks hard enough.
Damiano approaches us. His eyes linger curiously on Jenna, but he doesn't say anything. "Whitford didn't know about you or the hit on you."
I nod. It doesn't matter; he's still a rat. Jenna takes a short intake of breath. I send a worried look at her, but her expression doesn't change.
Enzo steps out of the shadows, calm as ever. "We're ready."
Marianne sees Jenna. Her muffled scream pierces the room, high and frantic. She jerks forward in her chair, eyes huge, pleading, fixated on Jenna like she's the last lifeline left. Jenna stiffens beside me, but she doesn't step back. That woman's spine is made of steel.
I move forward slowly, letting my presence settle over the room like a weight. "This," I announce evenly, "is where lies end."
I stop in front of Whitford first. He's already crying. Silent, shaking sobs he can't stop. He looks smaller like this. Reduced. The man who once thought himself untouchable. I don't address him yet. I don't raise my voice. I don't have to. I lift two fingers instead.
Enzo gives a barely perceptible nod. The sound of the soft scraping of metal wheels against concrete as Whitford's gurney shifts closer to the heart of the Oven is the only sound in the room.
Not into it. Not yet. Close enough that the heat changes, that the air grows thick and oppressive, that fear sharpens into something feral.
Whitford starts to whimper. I turn back to Marianne and Sean and step between them slowly, making sure they can both see Whitford.
Making sure they understand exactly where this is going.
"Here's how this works," I say calmly. "He goes first."
Sean's breathing turns ragged. Marianne lets out a broken sound, halfway between a sob and a prayer.
"But," I continue calmly, "one of you will not be next.
" Their heads snap up in unison. Hope—raw, desperate—flares in their eyes.
"The one who tells me," I keep my voice conversational, "how you were involved in the hit on me. And why."
I let that sit. I don't say saved. I don't say free. I don't say alive. Just not next. I gesture once. The gags come off. Sean breaks immediately.
"It wasn't my idea," he blurts, words tumbling over each other. "I was hired—consulting, security, logistics, nothing violent at first—"
"Sean," Marianne gasps, panic-stricken. "Stop—"
He doesn't even look at her. "It started small," he continues desperately. "Background checks. Quiet intimidation. Kingsley paid well—"
Marianne cuts in, voice shrill. "Oh, don't give that bullshit, you were willing to do anything for money. You beat people up and worse before I came to you!"
Her eyes flick to Jenna again, pleading. Begging. As if Jenna could still save her. I don't intervene. This is exactly what I want.
"Kingsley told me to find someone," Marianne blurts, shaking. "He demanded I find someone to get rid of… of him." Her gaze flicks to me. "He said his daughter was involved with a man who would ruin her."
Jenna stiffens beside me. Marianne sees it and latches on. "It wasn't personal," she insists, tears streaming now. "It was about protecting you. Protecting the family."
I feel Jenna's breath hitch, but she doesn't speak.
"She found my firm," Sean snaps bitterly. "Northstar. She hired us. Kingsley quickly realized how useful we were." He laughs weakly, hysterical. "One job became another. And another. Until I wasn't a contractor anymore. I was on staff."
"And the hit?" I ask softly.
Sean swallows hard. "Kingsley ordered it. Paid for it. He wanted you gone before you could—" He stops himself, eyes darting to Jenna. "Before things got complicated."
The room hums. The Oven breathes. Whitford lets out a thin, broken scream as the heat inches closer, reality finally landing.
Marianne sobs openly. "I didn't know it would become this," she whispers. "I didn't know anybody would die."
I tilt my head slightly and laugh dryly, "Everyone says that."
I nod at Enzo. Whitford sees it and guesses the meaning immediately. "No, oh God, no, please. Jenna! Jenna."
Jenna steps forward, and I don't interfere. Whatever she decides here, I will stand behind her. I owe her that much.