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Story: Taken

I swirl the whiskey in my glass.
“My sons arenotme.” I say quietly. “They have their own hearts, and those hearts are hers.”
Francesco scoffs, shaking his head.
“You talk like you have it all figured out.”
I manage to smile, the expression as foreign as the talk that is happening between us.
“I don’t, but I do know my sons. They love Chiara, every part of her, and they won’t stop loving her until they are in the grave.”
His jaw tightens as he looks away.
“Men like us…we do not get happy endings, Isaak.”
I release a heavy breath, knowing he’s right.
“I agree, but maybe they can. This is a different time, Francesco. Don’t forget that.”
It’s strange—this…peace we’re trying to achieve.
It’s unsteady, like a bridge that’s been built over old wounds, but it holds.
Francesco finishes the last of his whiskey.
“Do you really think this will end well?”
He asks.
I look at him.
“I think this will end based on how they do it. Our history has no importance in their future.”
His gaze moves towards the closed door.
“My daughter is stronger than she looks.”
I nod at him, knowing he is right.
You can’t survive being with my sons for as long as she has without being strong.
“So are my sons.” I say. “That is what happens when you raise fighters.”
There’s silence again, but it’s different now.
Here, we sit as two fathers who are tired of burying pieces of themselves.
Outside, life waits.
Whatever comes next, our children will face it together.
And for the first time in a long while, it feels like enough.
francesco
My chest tightens as I watch Chiara.
She remains seated between the two men who took her, and the two sons of the woman who is responsible for her mother’s death.

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