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Is this how it ends? Everything I've built. Everything I've fought for. Everything I've protected.
Gone.
I look at her, really look at her, searching for a hint of the woman I knew. The woman who curled against me in the night. The woman who whispered softly to me. The woman who carries my child.
But there's nothing. Just a stranger with my Ava's face.
The Fiori brothers laugh. It's not a sound of humor, but of pure cruelty.
"Look at the great Monster of Chicago now," Carlo sneers, his polished shoe pushing against my already broken ribs. The pain explodes, white-hot and consuming.
Marco joins in, his voice dripping with contempt. "All that power. All those threats. Reduced to this. Betrayed by your own wife."
Another kick. Another wave of pain.
"Always thought you were so tough," Carlo continues, circling like a predator. "Stefano Rega. The man who controlled Chicago. Now you're nothing. Less than nothing."
I try to focus. To breathe. To find some trace of humanity in Ava's eyes. But she stands there, statue-still, watching. Her face is a mask of cold indifference.
"She played you perfectly," Marco says, grabbing my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Months of planning. And you never saw it coming."
The laughter becomes a chorus. A symphony of mockery.
"Your empire," Carlo whispers, "gone. Your reputation? Destroyed. Your family? Broken."
My eyes drift to Ava. Searching. Hoping. Pleading.
She meets my gaze. Nothing. No remorse. No emotion.
Just calculation.
The way a con artist looks at a mark.
The way she must have looked at me all along.
The rage that should consume me never comes.
Instead, there's only an overwhelming, crushing sadness, a grief so deep it feels like drowning.
How did it come to this?
I look at Ava, this woman I love, this woman who is carrying my child, and feel nothing but an infinite, bottomless sorrow. Not anger. Not hatred. Just a soul-crushing disappointment that feels like it could swallow me whole.
All those years of searching for her. All those dreams of finding her again. The wild promises we made as children in the garden. The stolen moments. The passion. The belief that we were something special.
Reduced to this.
A con. A betrayal. A moment of cold calculation.
"How?" The word escapes me, barely a whisper. Not an accusation. Just pure, raw confusion.
The Fiori brothers continue their mockery, but their voices become distant. Meaningless.
I'm lost in the memory of Ava. The girl who used to quote philosophy. Who dreamed of escape. Who promised to follow me anywhere.
Who is now standing here, preparing to end me.
My eyes drift to her stomach. I think of the life growing inside her. Our child. The heir I'd dreamed of protecting.