Page 42 of Fire and Silk

Even after she stopped writing. Even after she grew too old to pretend she wasn’t the one leaving them. I still kept them.

Marco found them once in my gym bag. Grinned. “Better you than some rando.”

I wanted to tell him the truth then. That I didn’t deserve her. That I knew what my blood carried. That even the kindest version of me had rot in the roots.

But I didn’t.

Because some part of me—maybe the part that still believed in something close to love—hoped I could change.

I never touched her. Never crossed that line. Not when she turned sixteen. Not when she turned eighteen. Not even when her voice started to sound like silk and her hips filled out the edge of summer dresses.

But I watched. And I loved. Quietly. Carefully. From a distance that was always one step farther than I wanted it to be.

The city flickers past me in orange and blue. Billboards blur. I pass the edge of Carlton, close to the university where she should have been. Where she dreamed of finishing her music degree. Where everything went to hell instead.

I tighten my grip on the wheel.

The truth is, I should have stayed close. I should have come back sooner. But guilt’s a loud bastard. Louder even than grief. And when Marco died… it hollowed something in me I’ve never quite patched up.

I turn into the hotel’s underground parking, headlights catching on polished concrete and empty spaces. I shift into park, kill the engine, and sit for a long second before reaching for the door.

And she deserved far better than a man like me. Someone broken. Someone who still flinched at the sound of glass shattering. Someone who couldn’t sleep without checking every door lock twice.

But none of that mattered the day her mother sat us down.

It was just after the funeral, her father had died, suddenly. The scent of lilies still clung to my shirt. The living room had gone quiet, guests filtering out, some leaving half-finished cups of stale coffee behind. Chiara had looked tired but sharp as ever. She motioned for me and Marco to follow her into her study.

It was a small room at the back of the house—lined with heavy books, old newspaper clippings, and the faint smell of lavender and dust. The curtains were drawn. A single desk lamp threw pale light across a thick envelope sitting on her desk.

“You’re both my sons,” she said, her voice firmer than I’d ever heard it. “And I need you to hear this as such.”

I remember glancing at Marco, expecting him to roll his eyes or make a face. He didn’t. He just folded his arms and waited.

And then she told us.

She told us about the man she loved before she met her husband. A man deep in the underbelly of something dark and old. She had loved him, ran away with him, carried his child. And lost it.

When their house was attacked—when gunfire ripped their peace apart—he hadn’t been able to protect her. She lefthim. But before she did, she made him vow that if he ever rose to power, she and her children would never want for anything.

He agreed.

Years later, he made good on his promise. He didn’t just offer her wealth. He handed over deeds. Entire branches of his empire. But there was a clause, it would only take effect if one of her children married one of his.

It was the only way the bloodline could intertwine and the power stayed consolidated.

“Marco,” she said, turning to her son with a gaze that was almost pleading. “It has to be you.”

We laughed.

God, we laughed. I actually snorted.

Until she pulled out the documents.

Wax-sealed. Signed. Stamped. Copies of the deeds. The inheritance clause, printed in stark black ink.

Marco went pale. I stopped breathing.

He stood up first. Hands braced on the back of the chair.