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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Stefano

Fuck…I can’t feel my arms.

I can’t feel anything.

Pain is no longer a sensation. It's a living thing that inhabits every cell of my body, a constant companion that throbs and pulses with each ragged breath.

I don't know how long I've been here. Hours. Days. Time becomes meaningless when you're reduced to nothing but meat and bone and defiance.

And pain. Unbridled pain.

The concrete floor is stained dark—maybe with blood.

My blood. Their blood. Does it matter anymore?

Another blow crashes into my already swollen face, and my head snaps to the side, a low groan leaving my lips.

I've long since stopped trying to protect myself. My hands are zip-tied behind me, my body slumped in a way that tells of multiple broken bones. Ribs, definitely. Possibly my left arm. Maybe my jaw.

Maybe my head.

"Tell us about the routes," Marco Fiori says, or maybe it's Carlo. They've become interchangeable blurs.

It’s so funny the way their ugly faces merge.

It makes them even uglier.

I laugh. Or try to. It comes out as a wet, broken sound that's more like a gurgle.

The laugh earns me another punch. This one lands just beneath my eye, and I feel something pop. Cartilage, maybe. Or the last remnant of hope that I might walk away from this.

I don’t care, though.

She’s safe. Ava is safe, and that’s all that matters.

"You think you're strong," the voice continues. Definitely Marco. I can tell by the slight lisp that enters his speech when he's truly furious. "You think the Monster of Chicago can't be broken?"

I want to tell him that breaking isn't the same as surrendering. That pain is just another language I've become fluent in over the years.

But speaking would require more energy than I currently possess.

And I have no wish to teach Marco shit anyways.

He’s a dummy, explaining things to him will take a lot of strength.

My mind drifts to Ava again. To our child. The baby I won’t get to meet. That thought is both my weakness and my greatest strength.

They keep asking about shipping routes. About my businesses. About the network that could protect my family.

They'll get nothing from me.

Fools .

Another blow. This time to my kidneys. I can't help the sound that escapes, part grunt, part sob. My body betrays me even as my mind remains unbroken.

"Look at him," Carlo says, stepping closer. I can smell his expensive aftershave mixed with the metallic tang of my own blood. "The great Stefano Rega. Reduced to this."

I focus on a crack in the concrete floor. Memorize its jagged edges. Anything to stay present. Anything to avoid slipping into unconsciousness where they might gain an advantage.

My tattoos, those symbols of power and heritage that once meant everything, are now just roadmaps of bruises, dark ink blending with fresh wounds.

"One name," Marco says. "Just give us one connection. One weak point in your network."

I meet his eyes. Mine are swollen, but the message is clear. Go to hell.

Cono.

The next blow feels different. Calculated. Like they're finally realizing that physical pain won't break me.

They're right to be worried.

Because the monster inside me isn't dead. He's just waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

* * *

Footsteps approach, then pass by, fading into the distance. Voices become distant echoes.

The Fiori men are leaving. I try to make out what they are saying but sounds blend into a meaningless symphony of pain. My body feels like broken glass held together by nothing more than willpower and rage.

Then—her voice, cutting through the fog of near-unconsciousness.

Ava .

My head lifts, or tries to. The movement sends knives of pain through my skull, and I manage only the slightest twitch. Blood and sweat blur my vision, but I'd recognize her voice anywhere.

Fuck, what is she doing here? Or is my mind playing tricks on me now?

"...take over his legacy," she's saying, cold and clinical.

No.

NO .

She can’t be here.

I can’t let her get hurt and —

"Ava," I croak. The sound is barely human, more a wounded animal's whimper than a man's voice. "Run. Please. Run."

Each word is agony. My split lips crack, fresh blood trickling down my chin. I try to lift my head, to see her, to warn her. But my body is a traitor, barely responding to my commands.

The floor feels like it's spinning. Concrete and blood and broken dreams swirling together.

"If it isn’t Stefano Rega." She tuts, her voice cold. But there's something underneath the coldness. Something I recognize.

Is this a trap? A con?

Is this me trying to hope against hope?

I laugh. Pathetic.

My broken mind struggles to piece together what's happening. The Fiori brothers are watching. Waiting. Their eyes gleam with a predatory anticipation that makes my blood run cold—what little blood I have left.

"I'll definitely enjoy finishing this," Ava continues, her voice carrying that clever edge I've always known. The sound of a con artist at work. Of someone playing a deeper game.

I want to scream. To warn her. To protect her.

But I can barely breathe.

"Stefano," she whispers, suddenly close. So close I can smell her familiar scent beneath the warehouse's metallic stench. "You’re at my mercy now. How does it feel?"

Her hand touches my face, so gentle against the brutal landscape of my wounds. It’s a contrast so sharp it makes me want to weep.

And then she slaps me.

The sound cracks through the warehouse like a gunshot.

Pain explodes.

“How does it feel now, huh?”

Her words are more devastating than any punch the Fiori brothers have landed.

I try to talk again.

"Shut up," Ava says, her voice razor-sharp. Cold. Calculating. "I've made a deal with them. I'm going to kill you and take over your legacy. Run the family the way it always should have been run."

The world tilts. Stops. Shatters.

My broken body goes still, not from pain, but from something far worse. Betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound. Deeper than the broken ribs, the swollen eyes, the blood pooling beneath me.

She's going to kill me.

The woman I love. The mother of my child. The one person I hoped would never?—

A hysterical laugh tries to escape my throat, but it comes out as a wet, broken sound. Blood bubbles between my lips.

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.

And I realize the most painful truth of all.

I would still choose her. Even now. Even like this.

The sadness becomes a living thing, consuming everything. Replacing blood. Replacing hope.

How could I have been so wrong about her?

How could love have been such a perfect weapon?

Before I can stop it, the warehouse fades. The Fiori brothers' voices become distant. Pain recedes.

I’m back in time, to thirteen summers ago in the Venere compound's garden, all manicured hedges, and stolen sunlight. I'm standing near the oak tree, trying to look bored, trying to seem older than my thirteen years. The adults are talking business inside. The kids are supposed to stay outside.

But I’m practicing knife throws behind the guest house, something my older brothers taught me to do when no adults were watching. Each throw is precise. This is not a game, it’s training.

My father would be furious if he knew. "A Rega heir doesn't play with knives like some street thug," he'd say. But Darren and Antonio showed me, and I'm determined to be better than anyone expects.

The last knife spins through the air, embedding perfectly into the wooden target. Twelve throws. Twelve bullseyes.

A slow clap breaks my concentration.

I spin, another knife already half-drawn from my belt. It’s a reflexive movement that would make my brothers proud.

That's when I see her.

Ava D'Amato. Nine years old. Wild hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, grass stains on her white dress, a book clutched so tightly to her chest it might as well be armor.

She doesn't walk. She moves like something untamed. Like wind given human form.

Our eyes meet.

And something inside me, something I'm too young to understand, shifts. Locks. Becomes irrevocably changed.

She doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just looks at me with eyes that are already too old for her age. Dark. Knowing. Like she can see every thought before it forms.

"You're staring," she says. Not a question. A statement.

I should look away. Should pretend I wasn't watching. But I can't.

"So are you," I respond.

A hint of a smile. Gone so fast I might have imagined it.

"Impressive," she says, not intimidated by the knife still half-drawn in my hand. "Most kids would have dropped the blade when they were surprised."

I should lower the knife. Should act my age. Instead, I'm fascinated.

"You're not most kids," I respond.

Her laugh is sharp. Unexpected. "Neither are you, Stefano Rega."

How does she know my name? How does she stand there so fearlessly while I'm holding a weapon?

She takes a step closer. I should move back. Should seem cautious. Instead, I'm rooted in place, studying her like she's some rare, dangerous creature.

"Want to see something?" she asks, pulling a small, ornate knife from behind her back. The handle looks old. Expensive. Definitely not a child's toy.

Before I can respond, she flips it, once, twice, with a precision that would make my brothers jealous.

"Who taught you that?" I ask, genuinely impressed.

Her smile is knowing. Dangerous. "Everyone underestimates a girl with a book."

"Stefano!" My father's voice breaks the moment. "Come inside!"

But I can't look away from her. Can't stop seeing how different she is. How she doesn't fit. How she looks like she's already planning her escape.

“You are very good,” she says to me, glancing at me coyly, and then throwing the knife at the target, hitting the bullseye dead center. “But I’m better.”

Even then, I knew.

She would change everything.

I just didn't know how.

The memory dissolves like smoke, pulling me back to the brutal reality of the warehouse. Ava stands before me, a stranger wearing the face of the girl I once knew.

My broken body trembles, from pain, from cold, from something deeper and more devastating than physical suffering.

She moves closer. Each step calculated. Precise. The way she used to plan her philosophical arguments as a child now transformed into something more dangerous.

"Stefano," she says, and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, I hear something underneath the coldness. A tremor. A hint of the woman I love.

The Fiori brothers watch, hungry for blood. For destruction.

I tune them out and look at Ava. There is something in her gaze that isn’t the hate she professed to earlier. My heart beats faster in my chest.

She tilts her chin down slightly. A tell. A signal.

"You're going to die," Carlo says, almost conversationally. "And she's going to be the one to do it."

I can't look away from her. Can't stop searching her face for some trace of the girl who promised to follow me to the ends of the earth. The woman who carries our child.

Her hand reaches out. Touches my face again.

So gentle. So familiar.

And yet completely, terrifyingly foreign.

My mind struggles with the dissonance. Did I imagine the softness I saw in her gaze, the way she dropped her chin?

"I'm sorry," she whispers so softly I'm not sure the Fiori brothers even hear it.

But I do.

Her lips move close to my ear, barely a whisper. "Trust me."

Those two simple, magical words. Something in her tone, a vibration, a depth beneath the cold surface, makes something inside me pause.

Her hand connects with my already bruised face again.

The slap cracks through the warehouse like a gunshot. Pain explodes across my already battered cheek, my head snapping to the side from the force.

I blink. Slowly. Painfully.

Not understanding.

Trust her?

Is this another layer of her betrayal? Another twist in whatever game she's playing? Or something else entirely?

Her eyes meet mine. Brief. Intense.

Something flickers there. Something that doesn't match her cold words. A depth. A warning. A message.

The Fiori brothers are watching, waiting. Their anticipation is thick in the air like smoke.

But all I can see is Ava.

Not the woman planning to kill me.

The woman who might, just might, be trying to save me.

But…how?

Her eyes.

That's what breaks through my confusion. That's what makes me realize something deeper is happening.

I catch the glint. It’s just a millisecond of pure, raw emotion. Something beneath the cold performance, a vulnerability, a desperation that speaks volumes. The microscopic tremor in her hand after the slap. The way her breath catches for just a moment.

She's trying to save me.

Save us all.

She has a plan.

Trust me.

So, I do something completely counterintuitive.

I play along.

My broken body goes limp. My eyes, swollen nearly shut, become vacant. I become exactly what they want me to be: a defeated man about to be executed.

A subtle shift in my breathing tells Ava I'm with her. That I understand.

Whatever comes next, we're in this together.