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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ava

Stefano looks so broken.

His face is barely recognizable beneath the bruises and dried blood, one eye swollen completely shut, his lip split in multiple places.

Every time he breathes, I can see the pain ripple across his features—broken ribs, probably. Maybe worse. The sight of him like this—bound, beaten, yet somehow still defiant—makes my heart feel like it's being torn in two.

I did this to him.

My decisions. My lies. My desperate attempt to outrun a life I never chose.

And now I'm his only hope.

The Fiori brothers watch me with predatory eyes. Guards with dead eyes and bulges beneath their jackets hover at strategic points around the room. All waiting to see the great Stefano Rega brought low by the woman carrying his child.

By me.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. The hairpin sits heavy against my scalp, tucked securely in place. My only weapon. My only chance.

"Trust me," I whispered to him moments ago.

Now I need to earn that trust.

"You actually thought I loved you?" I force a laugh, making it sound as cruel as I can while I stalk toward Stefano's prone form. Every word feels like swallowing glass, but I make myself continue.

"You thought that I cared about your pathetic empire? Your precious legacy?" I circle him like a predator. "You were just a job. A mark. The biggest con of my career."

His one good eye follows me, understanding flickering behind the pain. He's playing along, making himself look defeated despite the monster I know lives inside him.

The monster that would tear this place apart to protect what's his if he weren't bound and broken.

I raise my hand and slap him hard across the face, the sound echoing through the warehouse. His head snaps to the side, fresh blood blossoming on his already split lip.

"I'm sorry," I mouth silently when the Fiori brothers can't see my face, my heart breaking at the pain I'm causing.

Carlo Fiori laughs—that rich, entitled sound I've always hated.

"Look at the mighty Stefano Rega now," he taunts, stepping closer to kick Stefano's side. I flinch as Stefano grunts in pain, but I can't show weakness. Not now.

"The Monster of Chicago," I continue, grabbing Stefano's hair and yanking his head back. "That's what they call you, right? Not so monstrous now." My voice drips with contempt, but I let my thumb brush gently against his scalp—a hidden caress, a silent apology. I feel him lean almost imperceptibly into my touch despite everything.

Marco Fiori steps forward, a smirk playing across his features. "You played him beautifully, Ava. Your parents would have been proud."

The mention of my parents makes something twist inside me. They raised me to be this—a liar, a thief, someone who could slip into any role necessary to survive. But they never taught me how to handle falling in love with a mark.

They never warned me that I might find myself standing in a warehouse with a hairpin weapon, desperate to save the father of my child.

"My parents knew that power is the only thing that matters in this world," I say, letting genuine bitterness flavor my words. "And thanks to Stefano, I'm about to have plenty of it."

I turn to the Fiori brothers, stepping away from Stefano with deliberate confidence. "He's given me everything I need to take over. Accounts. Passcodes. The names of his suppliers." I rest a hand on my still-flat stomach. "Plus his heir. The perfect leverage to control everyone loyal to the Rega name."

Carlo studies me. "And why should we trust you? The D'Amatos were never known for their loyalty."

I laugh, the sound sharp and cold. "Loyalty? To what—the family that used me as a tool since I was a child? That got my parents killed?" I step closer to him, letting him see the hardness I've cultivated over years of survival. "I'm loyal to power. To security. To making sure my child never lives the life I did." Another step. "You offered me a chance to take what Stefano has. I'm just improving the terms."

Behind me, I hear Stefano growl something in Italian—a curse, a threat. Good. The more he fights, the more convincing this will seem.

"She's lying," he spits, voice rough with pain. "She'll betray you just like she betrayed me."

I whirl on him, letting real anger fuel my performance. Anger at the Fioris. At my parents. At the whole fucked-up world that brought us to this moment.

"Shut up," I hiss, slapping him again. This time, I let my nails rake across his cheek, leaving red welts in their wake. His eye meets mine—a flash of understanding, then back to rage. We're dancing this deadly dance together now.

The slap echoes through the cavernous space, punctuating the silence that follows. I can feel everyone watching—the Fiori brothers with their prying stares, the guards with their dead eyes, Stefano with his desperate, knowing gaze.

The air feels thick with tension, with the weight of decisions that can't be undone.

I force myself to breathe evenly, to maintain the cold mask of betrayal despite the fear clawing at my insides. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and we're both dead.

"I'd like to finish him myself," I state again, turning back to the Fiori brothers. I let my lips curve into a smile I've practiced since childhood—cold, calculating, heartless.

Marco exchanges a look with Carlo. Something passes between them—a silent communication born of lifelong connection. My stomach tightens with anticipation, with the certainty that this is the moment everything changes.

"By all means," Marco finally says, reaching for the gun at his waist. "I think you've earned the privilege."

He extends the weapon toward me, grip first. The black metal gleams under the harsh warehouse lights. My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach for it, maintaining the mask of calm cruelty I've perfected over years of running cons.

Too easy.

Every instinct honed from childhood screams a warning. The offer is too simple, too straightforward. Carlo watches intensely, his smile never reaching his eyes. Marco's grip on the gun is too loose, his stance too casual. I've seen enough double-crosses to recognize one unfolding.

But I have to play along. Have to get close enough to use the only advantage I have—the element of surprise.

My hand extends toward the weapon, fingers careful not to tremble despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I can feel Stefano's gaze burning into my back, can almost sense his desperate need to protect me, to stop whatever's about to happen. But he can't help me now. No one can.

This moment—this one desperate chance—is all mine.

The warehouse feels unnaturally quiet as my fingers close around the gun's grip. I can hear my own heartbeat, the soft shuffle of expensive shoes on concrete, the labored rhythm of Stefano's breathing. Time seems to slow, stretching like heated glass about to break.

Then everything happens at once.

Marco's other hand snaps forward, grabbing my wrist in a crushing grip. The gun remains in his control as he yanks me closer, his smile transforming into something ugly and triumphant.

"You really thought we'd give you control?" Marco laughs, his breath hot against my face. "The D'Amato whore who spread her legs for Rega? You'll be lucky if we let you live long enough to birth that brat."

Behind me, Stefano roars, the sound of a man who would tear the world apart if he could move. The raw fury in his voice sends chills down my spine, but I don't let it distract me. Can't let it distract me.

Because this is exactly what I was counting on.

Marco's focus is on Stefano now, on enjoying the moment of power over Chicago's most feared man. His grip on my wrist remains tight, painful, but his attention has shifted.

In one fluid motion—the kind my mother drilled into me since I was old enough to walk—I reach up with my free hand, fingers finding the ornate hairpin tucked into my updo. The metal slides free silently, its edge razor-sharp against my palm.

Everything my parents taught me, every skill honed through years of cons and survival, narrows to this single, perfect moment. The weight of the hairpin in my hand. The exposed flesh of Marco's throat. The seconds ticking down before the guards react.

I don't hesitate. Can't afford to.

The hairpin slashes across his throat in a single, precise sweep. For a moment, nothing happens—just his eyes widening in shock, his grip on my wrist loosening. Time suspends as we stare at each other, both equally surprised by what I've just done.

Then blood blooms, a horrifying fountain of crimson that sprays across my face, my dress, the concrete floor. The warm wetness of it shocks me, so different from the clinical descriptions my father once gave of arterial wounds. So much more...real.

Marco's mouth works soundlessly, his free hand clutching at his throat as if he could somehow stop the life pouring from him. The gun drops from his fingers, clattering against the concrete with a sound that seems to echo endlessly through the warehouse.

Carlo shouts something—a name, a curse, I can't tell. The guards surge forward, weapons appearing in their hands. Stefano's voice rises above the chaos, warning me, urging me to move, to run, to do something.

But I'm frozen, watching as Marco's body begins to crumple, as his knees give way beneath him. He falls against me, sudden deadweight, his blood soaking through my clothes. The metallic smell of it fills my lungs, making me gag as I stumble backward, trying to get away from what I've done.

I've hurt people before. Broken bones. Left scars. But I've never watched someone die by my hand. Never seen the light leave someone's eyes. Never felt the warm spray of lifeblood across my skin.

The reality of it hits harder than any physical blow, momentarily paralyzing me with the enormity of what I've just done. In that suspended moment of shock, everything else fades away—the warehouse, the guards, even Stefano.

There's only me and the dying man at my feet, both of us equally surprised by how quickly everything can end.

The moment of shock costs me.

Carlo's voice cuts through my stunned horror, his words lost in the roaring of blood in my ears. But his intent is clear as he lunges toward me, face contorted with rage and grief.

I try to move, to raise my hands in defense, to do anything but stand there covered in his brother's blood. But my body responds too slowly, muscles stiff with horror and disbelief.

Carlo's fist connects with my face before I can recover, pain exploding across my cheekbone as I crash to the floor. The concrete is cold and wet beneath me—Marco's blood, I realize distantly, already pooling around me like some macabre halo.

The coppery taste of my own blood fills my mouth as darkness edges my vision. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear Stefano shouting my name, the sound desperate and raw. I try to respond, to move, to do anything but lie here stunned and vulnerable.

But the force of Carlo's blow has left me dazed, my limbs uncooperative, my thoughts scattered. The concrete floor presses cold against my cheek, Marco's blood soaking into my hair, my clothes, my skin.

In the distance, through blurred vision, I see Carlo reaching for his gun, his expensive shoes stepping carelessly through his brother's blood as he moves toward me. His face is transformed with hate, with the promise of violence to come.

This is it. I've failed. Failed Stefano. Failed our child. Failed the future I never thought I wanted until it was within reach.

I close my eyes, waiting for the gunshot that will end everything.

Instead, I hear a roar—primal, inhuman, filled with a rage so pure it transcends language. The sound of restraints breaking. Of a monster being unleashed.

Stefano.