Page 37

ALESSIO

The headline burns a hole through my skull.

He’s not at war with the Bratva. He’s colluding with them.

I read it again. And again. Every word feels like it's searing into my skin.

The photos. The timing. The way the world is already swallowing it whole.

It’s too perfect. Too calculated. Like someone was fucking setting me up.

And all I can think about is Sophie.

The baby.

This must be hell for her.

The thought guts me worse than any bullet could.

She’s out there, carrying our child, fighting battles that should be mine to fight.

And I’m here, halfway across the world, too fucking far to hold her. To shield her.

This was supposed to protect her. Not destroy her. I pace the study. The old wood floors creak under my restless steps. My phone is clutched so tightly my knuckles burn.

Three calls. Three straight trips to voicemail. I could blame the time difference. The headlines. Or maybe the fact that she's pissed at me. But deep down, I know better.

“She’s better off without me,” I mutter under my breath.

Fuck that.

That's the coward in me talking again. I left for her safety. That’s why I did it. That’s what I keep telling myself. But what if I left just because I'm a fucking coward?

Because it was easier to cling to the only things I’ve ever known. My wealth. My name. My reputation.

Things that have never meant a damn thing to her. She's seen past all my bullshit, past the facade and the performances. And I might have lost the best thing to every come into my life. The one person that saw me and still stayed.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame.

My father storms into the study, a tablet in his hand and fury in his eyes.

"Eva made it personal." He tosses the tablet with the article on full display, onto the desk. "We thought we were done with her. Thought she'd slither off once the gala blew over last year. But she's relentless."

I stare at the mess of headlines and photos, my jaw tightening.

"As much as she's disrespected this family," Dad says, voice low and rough, "this isn't my battle to fight."

"I know."

His gaze pins me in place. "You can no longer let guilt and fear make your decisions."

My throat tightens, but I don't argue.

"Because right now, here, is your moment to choose. So, are you letting them steal everything that matters to you?"

His tone shifts, softening, not weak, but weighted. "You want to miss on raising your child because you’re scared of your own past? You want to lose the love of a woman by running from her?"

Silence stretches thick between us.

Then Dad moves closer, drops his voice to something almost... regretful.

"I'm proud of the man you've become. It’s time to show that man to the world. To fight for what matters."

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost too much.

"You’re a Marchetti. You’re a fighter. Always have been. You crossed an ocean, rebuilt your life from nothing. Even when you lost your way... you survived. You adapted."

He scrubs a hand through his hair, the lines on his face deepening.

"I sent you to America after your mother died because you couldn’t handle the grief. Truth is... neither could I. Sending you away was my way of running too. Of avoiding what hurt too damn much to face."

The confession slices through me.

"I’m sorry, son. Your grief became my grief. And it became too damn hard."

I let the words sink in. He's never mentioned this before. I've resented my father for years for allowing me to go through all the shit. But I've never actually thought about how he was coping with everything.

“Alessio, I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did. You’re a better man than I ever was."

I drag a hand through my hair, my voice rough. "I don't feel like a better man."

I shake my head. "I thought I was doing the right thing, Dad. Walking away. Keeping her safe."

My throat burns. "But I broke her. I broke us. "

Dad's eyes glint with something dangerously close to sympathy. "Then fix it, son. Before you lose more than you can ever get back."

For a second, neither of us speaks.

Two broken men, standing in the ruins of old mistakes. Maybe even building something better.

I nod once. “You’re right, I’m handling this. Don’t worry.”

With newfound determination, I head toward the front door.

Luciana leans against the frame, arms crossed, watching me, a soft glint in her eyes.

"You finally packing your balls for the trip?"

I crack a tired smile. "Figured it’s about damn time, right?"

She pushes off the frame and hugs me, tight and fierce, no hesitation.

"Go fix it and go get your girl."

I squeeze her back. Hard. "You really missed your calling as a drill sergeant."

She grins, stepping back. "Someone's got to keep you in line."

For the first time in what feels like forever, my chest doesn't feel quite so heavy.

This time, I’m running toward something. Not away.

I yank out my phone and call Valentino.

He picks up on the second ring. “About damn time, Alessio.”

"Get the jet ready. I'm coming back to the States."

A beat of silence, then Valentino’s tone hardens. "Be at the takeoff site in thirty minutes."

I hang up and stare out into the night, fury crackling under my skin.

No more hiding. No more second-guessing.

I’m taking my life back.