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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Stefano

Blood roars in my ears, a thundering rhythm that almost drowns out the chaotic scene unfolding before me.

My vision blurs at the edges, the entire warehouse tilting like a ship caught in a storm. The concrete floor beneath me feels unsteady, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

But then I see it.

In one fluid motion—too fast for the Fiori brothers to anticipate—Ava's hand darts to her hair. The ornate hairpin I've seen a hundred times transforms into something deadly as she slashes Marco Fiori's throat with terrifying precision.

The shock of the moment electrifies my system, a surge of adrenaline breaking through the fog of my injuries. Blood sprays in an arc as Marco stumbles, his hands futilely clutching at his neck. His expensive shoes squeak against the concrete as he falls, eyes wide with disbelief.

Carlo reacts instantly, his fist connecting with Ava's face with a sickening crack. The sound triggers something primal in me—a surge of rage so intense it burns through the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

No one touches what’s mine!

She falls, a blur of dark hair and cream-colored dress against the filthy warehouse floor. For a terrible second, she doesn't move.

"AVA!" Her name tears from my throat, guttural and raw.

My body moves before my brain can process what's happening. I lunge forward, ignoring the white-hot agony that tears through my ribs, my shoulders, every battered inch of my broken form. The zip ties cut into my wrists, but the plastic gives way under the force of my desperation.

Carlo turns toward her, murder in his eyes, his hand already reaching for his weapon. But I'm on him before his fingers can close around the grip, tackling him with the last reserves of my strength. We crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, my momentum carrying us away from where Ava lies.

"You're fucking dead," Carlo hisses, his breath hot against my face. His knee drives up between us, catching me in my already fractured ribs. Stars explode behind my eyes as pain lances through me.

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can only fight.

"I should've killed you years ago," he spits, struggling beneath me. "Your whole fucking family. Should've finished the job when we took out your brothers."

The confession barely registers even though it’s been something I’ve been trying to find out for years. Now it’s just one more sin to add to the Fiori ledger. One more debt that will be paid in blood.

From the corner of my eye, I see Ava moving, crawling toward us. Her face is streaked with blood—Marco's or hers, I can't tell—but her eyes are clear. Focused. The tiny weapon still clutched in her hand gleams in the dim light.

Carlo sees her too. His struggle intensifies, one hand breaking free to reach for his gun. I grab his wrist, crushing it in my grip, but he's strong. I'm running on nothing but fury and fear.

"Ava, run!" I order, though the words come out as little more than a rasp. She ignores me, of course. Always so stubborn. Always so fucking brave.

Instead, she lunges forward, driving the hairpin blade into Carlo's shoulder. He roars in pain, bucking beneath me with renewed strength. His free hand grabs the knife, tearing it from his flesh and from Ava's grip in one violent motion.

Blood wells from the wound, soaking through his expensive suit. The smell of it fills the air—metallic, primal, triggering that dark thing inside me that Chicago's underworld has learned to fear.

I use his moment of distraction to pin him more securely, though every movement sends fresh waves of agony through my abused body. In the distance, I hear shouting. Heavy footsteps. The Fiori soldiers, responding to the commotion.

"The door!" I gasp at Ava, struggling to keep Carlo contained. "Lock it!"

She scrambles to her feet, rushing to the heavy warehouse door. The sound of it slamming echoes through the space, followed by the scrape of metal as she slides something—a pipe, maybe—through the handles to bar it shut.

It won't hold them for long, but we don't need long.

Just enough time to finish this. Once and for all.

Carlo and I grapple across the concrete, rolling perilously close to his brother's still-twitching body. The warehouse floor is slick with blood now, making it hard to maintain any grip or leverage. My hands slip against his arms as he twists beneath me, reaching again for his weapon.

This time, his fingers close around the grip.

I grab his wrist with both hands, using my entire weight to slam his arm against the floor. Once. Twice. His knuckles scrape against concrete, but his fingers refuse to release the gun.

"You're nothing," he snarls, face contorted with hate. "Your father was nothing. Your brothers were nothing. Just pretenders playing at power."

The gun wavers between us as we struggle for control. Every muscle in my body screams in protest. Blood and sweat sting my eyes, blurring my vision further. The edges of consciousness begin to fray, darkness threatening to pull me under.

No. Not now. Not when Ava's life hangs in the balance.

With strength born of sheer desperation, I manage to twist Carlo's arm at an unnatural angle. The tendons in his wrist stretch to their limit. Something snaps—a bone, maybe—and the gun clatters to the floor, spinning away from both of us.

Carlo howls in pain, but it transforms quickly into a manic laugh. "They're coming, Rega," he gasps, eyes darting to the door where the pounding has already begun. "You're trapped. We're all trapped. How does it feel, knowing you brought her here to die?"

The words slice deeper than any blade. Because he's right. This is my fault. All of it. The bruises on Ava's face. The danger to our child. The impossible situation we're now trapped in.

I should have protected her better. Should have seen the Fiori trap coming. Should have been smarter, faster, stronger.

Behind us, the door groans under the assault. Wood splinters. Metal bends.

Carlo's eyes gleam with triumph. "You lose, Monster."

Something dark and ancient surges through me then. It’s a rage so pure it transcends pain, transcends exhaustion, transcends the limitations of my broken body. I pin him fully beneath me, my hands finding his throat as easily as if they were made for this purpose.

"My name," I growl, tightening my grip, "is Stefano Rega."

His eyes bulge as his oxygen cuts off. His good hand claws at my face, my arms, my chest—finding every wound, every bruise, every broken rib. Pain explodes through me, but I don't relent. Can't relent.

Not when Ava's life is on the line. Not when our child's future hangs in the balance.

Carlo's struggles grow more desperate, more frantic. His face darkens as his lungs scream for air. I lean my full weight into my hands, staring into his eyes, watching the moment he realizes this warehouse will become his tomb.

"You took my family from me once," I say, voice steady despite the chaos within me. "Never again."

The sounds of the door giving way barely register. Ava's voice calling my name feels distant, underwater. All that exists is this moment. This kill. This revenge for every wound, every betrayal, every threat to what's mine.

Carlo’s struggles weaken. His eyes begin to roll back. Victory is so close I can taste it.

Then a sudden, sharp movement catches me off guard. Carlo bucks beneath me with his last reserves of strength, using his legs to push off from the ground. We roll, positions reversed, his weight now crushing me into the concrete.

The sudden shift sends waves of dizziness and nausea through me. My grip loosens just enough for him to gulp a desperate breath.

"You first," he rasps, hands finding my throat now. "Then her. Then your heir."

The threat against Ava, against our child, ignites that primal, unstoppable force again.

With strength I didn't know I still possessed, I slam my forehead into the bridge of his nose. Cartilage gives way with a sickening crunch, blood pouring down his face. The blow stuns him just long enough for me to heave him off me.

We roll again, a deadly dance across concrete and blood. The warehouse tilts and sways around us as my concussion worsens, but I focus on one thing only: ending this threat. Permanently.

I manage to position myself above him once more, but my strength is fading fast. My body, pushed well beyond its limits, threatens to give out entirely. Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision, my consciousness slipping away in slow pulses.

No. Not yet. Not until he's gone. Not until Ava is safe.

With the last of my strength, I lift Carlo's head by his hair and slam it against the concrete floor. The sound is sickening—wet, heavy, final. His eyes glaze, but I can't stop. Won't stop.

Again. Again. Again.

Until there's no possibility he'll ever rise again. Until the threat he poses is permanently eliminated.

Until Ava and our child are safe.

The door sounds like it might give in to the assault of the Fiori’s men. Voices fill the warehouse, shouting orders, positions, threats. But they're too late.

Carlo Fiori lies still beneath me, eyes fixed on the warehouse ceiling, seeing nothing. The Monster of Chicago has lived up to his name.

I try to push myself up, to turn toward Ava, to protect her from whatever comes next, but my body refuses to obey. The darkness at the edge of my vision rushes in like a tide, unstoppable now that my task is complete.

"Ava," I whisper, though I'm not sure if the sound actually leaves my lips. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

For getting her involved in this life. For forcing her into this marriage. For failing to protect her properly.

For everything.

The last thing I see before consciousness leaves me is her face, hovering above mine. Blood-streaked and bruised, but alive. Beautiful. Mine.

Then there's nothing but darkness, swallowing me whole.

The taste of blood fills my mouth, metallic and warm. Something wet trickles down my face—sweat or blood, I can't tell anymore. Every breath feels like fire, each rib a separate torment. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, a bass drum of pain that makes thinking nearly impossible.

But still, Ava's voice reaches me through the encroaching darkness.

"Stefano! Stay with me!"

I try to respond, to reassure her, but my lips won't form the words. My body feels impossibly heavy, anchored to the concrete by exhaustion and injury. The warehouse spins around me, walls and ceiling trading places in a nauseating carousel.

Footsteps thunder toward the room we are in—Fiori soldiers come to avenge their fallen bosses. Time has run out.

With tremendous effort, I manage to turn my head toward the sound, placing myself between the approaching threat and Ava. One last protection, futile as it may be.

But it doesn’t work at all. My eyes close and the darkness claims me harshly.

I am so sorry, my Ava.