Chapter 45 Jenna
Two days later…
Massimo comes into the bedroom without knocking. I know what it is before I see it. He doesn't sit. Doesn't soften it. He just holds out a burner phone, his expression is as steady as ever, his eyes search my face one last time.
"It's time," he announces.
I nod. I've known this was coming. I've rehearsed it in my head, told myself I'm ready.
Still, my chest tightens the moment my fingers touch the phone.
I feel clumsy when I press dial. Massimo doesn't ask are you sure.
He already knows the answer. He presses a kiss to my temple instead—grounding, solid—and steps back, giving me space but not distance.
I draw a breath. It rings twice.
"Who is this? My father's voice comes sharp and annoyed, already defensive.
"It's me."
"Jenna? Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused me? Running off, disappearing, do you know what people are saying?"
I close my eyes for a second. How did I not see this earlier? Well, I did, but back then, I chose to ignore it.
"I do," I respond calmly. "That's kind of the point."
There's a pause. A recalibration.
"So," he scoffs, "you finally call. Let me guess, this is about that man. The mobster. Of course it is. I warned you about him."
"No," I reply. "This is about you."
His tone hardens. "Watch yourself."
I straighten, even though he can't see me. "Carter is gone." Silence follows that statement; I let him fill in what I mean with gone. "Same as Marianne and Sean," I continue. "So before you start pretending you don't know what I'm talking about—don't."
"You think this scares me?" he snaps. "You're running with criminals now, Jenna. Is that what you want? To throw your life away for—"
"I know everything," I interrupt.
That finally does it.
"What exactly do you think you know?" he demands, but the edge is gone now. Replaced by something thinner.
"I know you ordered the hit on Massimo." I'm glad I don't have to see his face right now. "I know you paid Sean. I know Marianne facilitated it. I know how long they've been cleaning up after you."
"You don't have proof," his response is quick. Too quick.
I smile, though my eyes burn. "That's where you're wrong."
Another pause. I imagine him standing in his office, jaw clenched, already calculating exits.
"Oh," I add lightly, "and just so you know, Amauri is safe. He's happy. He's surrounded by people who actually love him." I let that sink in. "You will never see him again." Not that I imagine he would want to, but I need to say the words. I need to reclaim my power and control.
His voice rises now. "You don't get to do this to me. I'm your father."
"No," I disagree softly. "You were my father. You stopped being that when you decided my life was collateral."
I hear something in the background then. Muffled voices. A knock.
"What's going on?" he demands, sharp with irritation.
I glance at Massimo. He's watching me closely, ready if I need him. I don't.
"You should answer that," I advise. "That would be the FBI knocking."
"What—"
"I sent them everything," I continue calmly. "The payments. The emails. The witness statements. The women who finally felt safe enough to talk. Enough to bury you for the rest of your life."
He starts to speak. To threaten. To bargain. I push end call.
My hand shakes as I lower the phone. For a second, I just stand there, breathing, existing, letting the weight of it crash through me. Widow. Daughter no more. Survivor.
Massimo is there instantly. He takes the phone from my hand, sets it aside, and pulls me into his chest.
"It's done," he assures me quietly.
I close my eyes, press my face into him, and let the tears come, not loud, not dramatic. Just honest. For the first time in my life, the past has no hold on me. And the future?
The future is finally mine.
Life doesn't snap back into place all at once.
It settles. Slowly. Carefully. Like something fragile learning how to trust gravity again.
Amauri is back in school. Not the way it was before, not entirely.
Massimo insisted on extra security, and now there's a man at the school who pretends to be an aide.
Clipboard. Neutral clothes. Polite smile.
No one who looks at him for more than two seconds believes the act. But no one openly questions it either.
The other parents whisper. The kids stare.
Amauri pretends not to notice, but he does.
He always has. Still, he goes. He laughs again.
He brings home drawings, spelling tests, and stories about friends who argue over Pokémon cards and who got tagged during recess.
The nightmares haven't vanished. Some nights, he still crawls into bed with Massimo and me, small hands clutching my shirt, his breathing uneven.
But they've softened and become less frequent. Esther says that's progress. That trauma doesn't disappear; it loosens its grip. She comes twice a week now, and Amauri trusts her. Talks to her in that sideways way kids do, circling the truth until it feels safe enough to touch.
Massimo's and Amauri's bond is growing in ways I never could have planned or forced. It's in the way Amauri looks for him when he's unsure. The way he mirrors Massimo's posture without realizing it. The way Massimo lowers himself—physically and emotionally—to meet him where he is.
I finally told Amauri about Carter.
That he was gone.
There were tears. Of course there were. Carter had been there.
Flawed, distant, wrong in ways Amauri couldn't articulate, but present.
Grief doesn't ask whether someone deserved love.
It just arrives. I held him while he cried.
Massimo held him, too. Finally, when the tears stopped, when Amauri curled into Massimo's side and stayed there, something settled quietly into place. Not replacement.
Belonging.
Some days, when Massimo comes home, and Amauri runs to him without hesitation, when the three of us end up tangled on the couch watching something ridiculous and animated, it almost feels… normal.
Not the life I imagined at eighteen. But the life I would have chosen had I been given a choice.
The one I fought for. The one that survived.
I don't know what the future will demand of us.
I know Massimo's world is dangerous. I know shadows don't disappear just because you drag them into the light.
But I also know this: I am no longer alone.
My son is safe. And the man beside me doesn't just promise protection, he lives it.
I look at the ring on my finger sometimes, simple and heavy and real, and think about everything we lost. Then I look at Amauri.
At Massimo. At the family we're building from the wreckage.
And I know—with a certainty that feels like peace—that this is not the end of our story.
It's the beginning of the one we finally get to write ourselves.
Amauri knows the version he needs to know. That there were bad men. That Carter didn't make it. That Massimo is his father.
He took it the way he takes everything, quietly, without breaking.
Esther helped smooth the edges. Gave it shape. Something a ten-year-old can hold onto now, with space for the rest later. And somehow… he's okay. More than okay. He's already attached to Massimo in a way that feels natural, inevitable. Like something that was always meant to find its place.
Massimo gives him the kind of attention Carter never did. Steady. Present. Uncomplicated. The two of them are already thick as thieves. And every time I see them together, it feels like my life is finally settling.
Carter's death is already public knowledge.
The official story is that he was killed in Venezuela by the Cartel.
Massimo used his FBI contacts to spin the story that they rescued Amauri, but were not in time to save Carter.
There is no body, but it's enough for a Justice of the Peace to declare me a widow.
Enough for the country to mourn him. Enough for it to turn on me for not mourning him long enough.
Massimo keeps the worst of it out of the papers.
Keeps Amauri's name out of their mouths.
But he can't stop all of it, can't stop people from counting the days between Carter's death…
and our wedding. There was a time when I would have cared.
That time is over. As long as Amauri is safe from the gossip, I'm fine with it, and the school is doing an excellent job shielding him when he's there.
This weekend, we're getting married. Quietly.
No spectacle. No press. No politics. Just us.
Massimo's friends will be there, the other capos I haven't met yet, but will tonight at our long-overdue dinner party.
I purposefully kept the affair informal.
Massimo told me about his friends, how they met, how they took over the city, and how they saved each other's lives more than once.
I feel a deep sense of gratitude towards each of them.
They kept Massimo alive in more ways than one, and that already gives them a big place in my heart.
I've ordered the long dark wood table to be placed and set by the terrace—because God forbid, I so much as fold a napkin—the doors open to the warm Vegas night.
Candlelight. Just food, wine, and whatever kind of men survive loving someone like Massimo.
Somewhere in the background, the city hums like it always does — unaware of the men who run it.
Amauri is practically vibrating beside me.
"They're soldiers, right?" he whispers.
"Friends," I correct gently.
The elevator chimes. Massimo appears from the hallway first, followed by two men. I recognize Enzo. Scarred. Controlled. Authority wrapped in calm. I've spoken to Amauri about how he might look scary to him, but all Amauri can think to say is, "Wow, you survived a lot. Just like Massimo."