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CHAPTER FIVE

Ava

The buzzing of my phone drags me from sleep, harsh and insistent against the nightstand.

My first thought is that this isn't my nightstand. The smooth marble surface feels foreign under my fumbling fingers.

My second thought is that I'm not wearing anything.

And my third thought, as memories of last night flood back, is shit .

Stefano .

Stefano's arm is heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. In the dim light filtering through the expensive curtains, I can make out the tattoos trailing down his bicep—Italian script mixed with darker symbols of power.

Even in sleep, he radiates that dangerous energy that drew me in last night. That's still drawing me in if I'm being honest with myself.

Which I'm not. Can't be. Not when?—

My phone buzzes again. Tony's name flashes on the screen, along with the time. Almost four in the morning. My stomach drops before I even read the message.

Need pickup. @ Murphy's. 2 drunk 2 drive.

"Fuck," I mutter, then freeze as Stefano stirs behind me. The car. I'd let Tony take our piece of shit car because I thought he’d go to a friend's house to play video games.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Another text comes in.

Plz dont b mad. Rly need help.

I ease out from under Stefano's arm, trying to ignore how much my body protests the loss of his warmth.

My dress from last night is somewhere...there…draped over what looks like a genuine Eames chair. Because of course, Stefano has the kind of penthouse where you casually toss clothes onto furniture worth more than my entire wardrobe.

My hands shake slightly as I pull the dress on, and I tell myself it's just the lingering effects of the wine. Not the memory of Stefano's fingers tracing every inch of my skin. Not the guilt churning in my stomach as I think about the Fioris waiting for my report.

Not the way my heart clenches when I glance back at him, dark hair mussed against white sheets, looking more vulnerable than a man like him has any right to.

"Going somewhere?"

His voice, rough with sleep, freezes me mid-step. I turn slowly, finding him propped up on one elbow, sheet riding low on his hips. The sight does things to my insides that I really don't need right now.

"Tony…my brother, needs pickup," I say, aiming for casual despite how my pulse races. "He's at Murphy's."

"The dive bar on Halsted?" Stefano's eyes sharpen, all traces of sleep vanishing. "It's not a safe neighborhood at this hour."

"I can handle myself." I spot my underwear near the foot of the bed and snag them, trying not to think about how they got there. "I've been handling things on my own just fine for years."

He sits up fully, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way his muscles move under his tanned skin. "You're not going alone."

"Stefano—"

"Give me two minutes to dress." It's not a request. The softness from last night is gone, replaced by the man who runs Chicago's underworld. "We'll take my car."

I should argue. Should insist on handling this myself. Should definitely not let him anywhere near my drunk, loose-lipped brother when I'm supposed to be spying on him.

But something in his voice—that mix of command and concern—makes my protests die in my throat.

Or maybe I'm just tired of handling everything alone.

"Fine," I say, but add some bite to my tone to maintain at least the illusion of control. "Two minutes."

He moves with efficient grace, and I find myself observing the way he checks his phone first thing, the gun he straps to his ankle with practiced ease, how he seems to fill the room with his presence even before he's fully dressed.

The most dangerous mark is the one who makes you forget they're a mark at all.

I just wish my heart would remember that.

The elevator ride down to Stefano's private garage feels endless. I keep my arms crossed, maintaining careful distance despite how every cell in my body gravitates toward him. His cologne fills the small space, mixing with memories of last night that I really don't need right now.

"You're angry," he observes, breaking the silence. It’s not a question.

"Not at you." I stare at our reflections in the polished elevator doors. He’s in another impeccable suit despite the hour, while I’m in last night's dress, coat wrapped around me, my hair a dead giveaway for exactly what we've been doing.

We look like a cliché, but this feels like destiny. Both thoughts terrify me.

"Your brother's young," he says carefully. "Making mistakes is part of growing up."

I bite back a harsh laugh. "Getting drunk at a dive bar isn't just a mistake. He took our only car, Stefano. And now he's in one of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago, probably with people who—" I cut myself off, remembering who I'm talking to.

But Stefano catches it. Of course he does. "People who what, Ava?"

The elevator doors open to his garage, saving me from answering. A sleek black Audi chirps as he hits the key fob. Any other time, I'd appreciate the machine's quiet power and its elegance. Now I just want to get to Tony before he can do any more damage.

Stefano opens my door, ever the gentleman, even in the wee hours of the morning, but catches my arm before I can slide in. "People who what?" he repeats softly.

I meet his eyes, seeing the barely leashed power. "People who might recognize the D'Amato name," I admit. "Who might think a drunk teenager with connections to old Chicago families could be useful."

Or dangerous. Or a good way to send a message.

These are all the things I don't say, but Stefano hears them anyway. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, how his hand flexes on my arm.

"Get in," he says, voice clipped. "We'll be there in ten minutes."

It should take twenty, even with no traffic. I don't argue.

The car purrs to life, and Stefano navigates through empty streets like he owns them. Which, I suppose, he does, in a way. My mind registers every turn, every shortcut, building a mental map of his territory.

"Tell me about Tony," he says after a few minutes. "Beyond what I remember of him as a kid."

I stare out the window, watching Chicago's glittering facade give way to grittier neighborhoods.

"He's smart. Too smart sometimes. Gets bored easily. Angry about..." Everything. Our parents. Our life. The weight of expectations he never asked for. "He needs structure. Stability. Things I can't seem to give him."

"You're doing the best you can."

"Am I?" The words come out bitter. "Because from where I'm sitting, I'm failing spectacularly. He's drinking more, hanging out with people who remind me way too much of our parents' old crowd. I was supposed to protect him from all that, give him a normal life, but instead?—"

Stefano's hand finds mine in the darkness, warm and solid. "Instead, you're carrying a weight that should never have been yours to begin with."

The simple touch, the understanding in his voice—it's too much. I pull my hand away, needing space. I need distance from his warmth, his insight, the way he sees right through my carefully constructed walls.

"Tony's my responsibility," I say firmly. "Has been since our parents died. Everything I do, every choice I make..." I swallow hard, guilt threatening to choke me. "It's all for him."

Stefano is quiet for a long moment, guiding the car through streets that get progressively darker, emptier. Finally, he says, "It doesn't have to be just you anymore, Ava."

My heart stutters. Because he means it. I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his hands tighten on the steering wheel. He's offering something I've always dreamed of; support, stability, someone to share the burden.

And I have to betray him.

Murphy's neon sign appears ahead, a garish splash of color in the pre-dawn darkness. A few motorcycles crowd the curb, their owners probably inside losing this week's paychecks. No sign of our car.

"There," I spot it finally, parked crooked in the back lot. No Tony in sight.

Stefano pulls in smoothly, positioning the Audi for a quick exit if needed. Always tactical, even now. "Stay in the car," he starts to say.

I'm already opening my door. "Like hell."

His laugh is soft, dangerous. "Some things never change." He's out and moving before I can respond, all coiled power and lethal grace. "Stay close, then."

I follow him toward the bar's entrance, heels clicking against cracked pavement, trying to ignore how natural it feels to fall into step beside him. I’m trying even harder to ignore how much I wish this was real—his protection, his support, his care.

But it's not. It can't be.

And the sooner I remember that, the better chance I have of keeping us both alive.

Murphy's reeks of stale beer and bad decisions. The kind of place that attracts people looking to forget or be forgotten. Right now, it's mostly empty with just a few regulars slouched at the bar, some guys playing pool in the corner, and?—

"Tony!" He’s at a back table, surrounded by empty glasses and even emptier company. Three guys I don't recognize, all older, all giving off that predatory vibe that makes my skin crawl. One has his hand on Tony's shoulder, speaking low in his ear.

I start forward, but Stefano's hand catches my waist. "Let me," he says quietly.

"He's my brother."

"And those are Marchetti's men." His voice is tight. "Low-level enforcers looking to make a name for themselves. Let me handle this."

The name hits like a punch to the gut. The Marchettis are barely more than street thugs, but they're ambitious. Hungry. The kind who'd love to use a drunk D'Amato kid as leverage.

I should have known Tony would find trouble. It's practically our family motto.

Stefano moves ahead of me, his presence filling the dingy space like smoke. The change is subtle but instant, backs straightening, conversations dying, eyes dropping. Even drunk, people recognize a predator in their midst.

The guy with his hand on Tony notices last. "Mind your own business," he starts to say, then looks up. The color drains from his face. "Mr. Rega, I?—"

"Remove your hand from the boy." Stefano's voice is soft. Deadly.

The hand disappears. Tony blinks up at us, glassy-eyed and swaying. "Ava? What's...why's he here?"

"Making sure you get home safe," I say, moving to his side. He reeks of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. "Come on, time to go."

"But Aldo said...said they knew Dad." Tony's words slur together. "Said they could tell me stuff about him and Mom. About what really happened?—"

"Lying to a minor," Stefano cuts in, still in that dangerous silk voice. "Buying him alcohol. Trying to pump him for information about his family." His smile is all teeth. "Tomasso will be very interested to hear about this."

The name drops like a bomb. Two of the guys actually flinch. The third, Aldo, apparently, tries to salvage something from the conversation. "We were just talking, Mr. Rega. No harm meant."

"No?" Stefano steps closer. Even in the bar's dim light, I can see how his eyes have gone cold. "Then you won't mind explaining exactly what you were discussing. In detail. At my club. Tomorrow morning."

It's not a request. All three men scramble to their feet, mumbling apologies and practically tripping over each other to get away. In any other situation, it would almost be funny.

Tony tries to stand and nearly falls. I catch him, staggering under his weight. He's grown so much lately. He’s not my little brother anymore, but not quite a man either. He’s caught in between, just like me.

"Easy," Stefano says, moving to Tony's other side. Together, we get him mostly upright. "Car's right outside."

"Don't need help," Tony mutters, but he's leaning heavily on us both. "Don't need anything. Just wanted...wanted to know..."

"I know," I say softly, heart breaking. Because I do know. I know what it's like to have questions that keep you up at night. To wonder if there was more to our parents' accident than we were told. To feel like the answers are just out of reach.

But I also know the price of asking the wrong people those questions.

We manage to get Tony outside, the cool air making him shiver. Or maybe that's the alcohol leaving his system, and reality starting to creep in. Either way, he seems smaller suddenly. Younger.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles as we reach the car. Then his eyes widen like he's just remembered something important. "Oh! And I'm sorry 'bout the other thing too. Y'know, the thing with the Fi?—"

I clamp my hand over his mouth so fast I nearly smack him. "The fitness center! Yes, Tony, I know you skipped your gym sessions this week. We'll definitely talk about your...exercise habits... tomorrow."

Stefano raises an eyebrow at the obvious save, but Tony's already distracted by trying to count the stars, crisis narrowly averted.

"Pretty stars," he slurs, slumping against the car door. "Spinning stars."

"It's okay," I say, smoothing his hair back while my heart races. "We'll talk about everything tomorrow."

Stefano opens the back door, helping me get Tony situated. As I'm buckling him in, because he's definitely not coordinated enough right now, he grabs my hand.

"They said...said Dad was working on something big. Before. Said maybe that's why—" His voice cracks.

"Shh." I squeeze his hand, fighting back tears. "Not now. Sleep."

He's out before I close the door, exhaustion and alcohol finally winning. I stay there for a moment, forehead pressed against the cool metal, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest.

A warm hand settles on my back. "Ava."

"Don't." My voice shakes. "Please. I can't...I can't do this right now."

Stefano doesn't push, just guides me around to the passenger side. But I feel his eyes on me, see the questions building. Questions I can't answer without bringing everything crashing down.

Tony's not the only one being used to dig up old secrets. Maybe the Fioris knew exactly what they were doing, sending me to spy on Stefano.

Maybe we're all just pawns in a game I'm starting to realize I never understood at all.

The drive back is silent except for Tony's occasional mumbling in his sleep. I keep twisting in my seat to check on him, though I'm not sure what I'm looking for.

Signs of alcohol poisoning? Proof he's still breathing? Evidence that my little brother is still in there somewhere, under all the anger and hurt?

"He'll be fine," Stefano says quietly, reading my thoughts. "Just needs to sleep it off."

"Will he?" I turn around, staring out at the passing streets. Everything looks different in these pre- dawn hours—softer but somehow more dangerous. Like the city is holding its breath. "Because from where I'm sitting, nothing about this is fine."

Stefano's hand finds mine again, and this time I don't pull away. Can't. I need the anchor too much. "Talk to me, Ava."

"About what?" Bitter laugh. "About how I'm failing him? About how he's turning into exactly what our parents were—reckless, self-destructive, too smart for his own good?" My voice cracks. "About how I promised to give him a normal life, and instead he's getting drunk with mob enforcers?"

"You're not failing him." Stefano's thumb traces circles on my palm, the touch grounding me. "You're keeping him alive. Safe."

"Am I?" The tears I've been fighting start to fall. "Because it feels like I'm just...treading water. Barely keeping our heads above the surface while everything tries to drag us under."

The city lights blur through my tears, turning Chicago into a watercolor painting of neon and shadow. After telling him our address, Stefano doesn't speak again. He just holds my hand tighter as we wind through empty streets toward our motel.

The contrast between his world and mine has never felt starker, his sleek Audi pulling into a parking lot where most of the cars are held together with duct tape and prayers.

Tony stirs as we park, muttering something that sounds like “dad” before falling silent again. My heart clenches.

"Let me help get him inside," Stefano says, already moving to open the back door.

I should maintain some boundaries, keep some distance, but Tony's dead weight between us feels like a metaphor for everything I can't handle alone anymore.

We manage to get him up the stairs and into our room without incident. The fluorescent lights are harsh after the darkness, highlighting every water stain on the ceiling, every crack in the walls. I try not to think about what Stefano must think of this place.

Tony flops onto his bed fully clothed. I start to remove his shoes, an echo of countless other nights like this, but Stefano beats me to it.

"Get him some water," he says, efficiently unlacing Tony's boots. "And aspirin if you have it. He'll need it soon."

The simple competence in his voice, the way he handles my brother with careful dignity despite the circumstances—it does something to my chest that I can't examine too closely.

I busy myself getting water and pills, setting them on the nightstand. When I turn back, Stefano is studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious about my smeared makeup, my wrinkled dress, the general disaster that is my life right now.

"You don't have to do this alone anymore." He steps closer, and the air charges between us. "Let me help."

Three simple words that could change everything. Fix everything.

Destroy everything.

"I can't," I whisper, though everything in me screams to accept. To let him in. To believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a way out of this maze that doesn't end in betrayal.

Instead of arguing, he pulls something from his pocket. Car keys. His car keys.

"Take it," he says, pressing them into my hand. "You need reliable transportation. Something safe."

I stare at the keys, then at him. "Stefano, I can't?—"

"You can and you will." His voice brooks no argument. "I'll have Tommaso pick me up. And I'll send someone tomorrow to look at your car, get it running properly."

"Why?" The question comes out small, vulnerable. "Why are you doing this?"

He catches my chin, tilting my face up to his. The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. "You know why."

And I do. That's what terrifies me.

Because how am I supposed to betray someone who looks at me like I'm everything he's been searching for? Who helps my drunk brother without judgment? Who offers support without demanding anything in return?

Who might actually be exactly what Tony and I need to survive?

I stand in the doorway of our motel room, watching Stefano make a call, presumably to Tommaso. His figure cuts a sharp silhouette against the pre-dawn sky, power and authority evident in every line of his body.

Even here, in this rundown place that smells like old cigarettes and broken dreams, he looks untouchable.

Except he's not. Not really. Because I'm supposed to be finding his weak points, gathering intel that could destroy everything he's built.

The weight of his car keys burns in my palm.

Tony's soft snores drift from behind me, punctuated by occasional mumbles. At least he's sleeping it off safely, not passed out in some mob-connected bar or worse. All thanks to the man I'm supposed to betray.

Stefano ends the call and turns back to me. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, he's beautiful.

"Tommaso will be here in ten," he says, moving closer. "You should get some rest."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it for more than just tonight. "For everything. The car, Tony, all of it. I?—"

He catches my hand, pressing the car keys more firmly into my palm. "Don't thank me yet." His thumb traces my pulse point, sending shivers down my spine. "This isn't charity, Ava. This is me making sure you're safe. That you have what you need."

My heart twists. Because he means it. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the possessive way he touches me. And God help me, but part of me wants to believe it, wants to lean into his strength, his protection, his care.

But I can't. The Fiori family doesn't forgive betrayals. And if they found out about Tony almost spilling their name tonight...

"You should go," I whisper, even as my body screams to pull him closer. "Your ride will be here soon."

Instead of moving away, he leans in, resting his forehead against mine. For a moment, we just breathe the same air, existing in this fragile space between what is and what could be.

"Come stay with me," he says suddenly. "You and Tony. The penthouse has plenty of room. He'd be safer there, away from people who might try to use him."

The offer steals my breath.

"I can't," I say, the words physically painful. "Not...not yet. There's too much..."

"Too much what?" His voice is gentle. "Too much history? Too much pride? Too much fear?"

All of it. None of it. Too much truth I can't tell him.

A car's headlights sweep the parking lot, Tommaso arriving right on time. Stefano sighs, pressing a kiss on my forehead.

"Think about it," he says, stepping back. "The offer stands. For both of you."

I watch him walk away, every step increasing the distance between what I want and what I have to do. He pauses at Tommaso's car, looking back at me. "Sweet dreams, tesoro ."

Then he's gone, leaving me clutching his car keys and fighting tears. I go back inside, my vision blurred. Behind me, Tony mumbles something in his sleep, reminding me why I'm doing all this, why I have to see it through.

But as I close the door and slide down against it, I wonder if I'm not just trading one kind of danger for another. Because betraying Stefano Rega might keep us alive, but the look in his eyes when he called me his—that's the kind of thing that could destroy me in entirely different ways.

I curl my fingers around his car keys, feeling the metal bite into my palm. A gift freely given. Protection freely offered. Trust I haven't earned and can't keep.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, part of Chicago's lullaby. I close my eyes, exhaustion, guilt, and want warring in my chest.

Tomorrow, I'll have to contact my Fiori handler. I have to figure out how to play this game without getting us all killed. I’ll have to be smart, calculating, worthy of my heritage.

But tonight...tonight I let myself feel the weight of Stefano's keys in my hand and pretend, just for a moment, that I'm worthy of his trust after all.