"Everything, apparently," he says in a low voice that almost sounds guttural. He's rattled. Like he hasn't quite come to terms with whatever he’s about to say. He comes back to me then and crouches in front of me, so close I can see the storm mirrored in his eyes. I cup his face.
"Whatever it is, we can figure it out together."
A smile curves his lips as he takes my hands and kisses them. "You have no idea what a gift you are to me."
Warmth spreads through me. I don’t think he has any idea what his words mean to me. Nobody has said anything like this to me in… a very long time. I roll my shoulders, trying to look braver than I feel, because I can’t shake the sense that what he’s revealed so far is only the beginning. There’s more, something deeper, waiting just beneath the surface. My throat works as I force myself to ask, "What does he have to do with you?"
His eyes don’t move from mine. "He told me that I’m the son of Leonardo Zanello."
The words hang there, heavy, impossible. For a second, I think I misheard him.
"What?"
He nods once. "Yeah. That was my reaction too."
I shake my head, trying to piece it together. "No. Leonardo Zanello was?—"
"Don Edoardo’s father," he finishes for me. "And mine."
The air between us goes still. My hands fall from his face as I stare at him, shocked. My fingers curl into his shirt again to ground myself, because I don’t know what else to do. It’s too much. My father. Roberto. Edoardo. Now this. It’s like all the lines I thought I knew are blurring together.
Finally, I manage, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know who I am," he replieshonestly. "All of me. Even the parts I haven’t figured out yet."
The storm reflects in his eyes, a dark mirror of everything he carries inside. He looks torn, like he wants to tell me more but isn’t sure how.
I'm still clinging to his shirt. "Whatever it is," I repeat in a whisper, my voice sounding steadier than I expected, "we can figure it out together."
"What if I want more?" He asks.
"More what?"
A determined look crosses his features, "I was told I was an orphan, a burden, a nobody, for as long as I can remember."
My heart clenches at the thought of him being a little boy and thinking he was a burden. I look into his eyes, ready to comfort him, but I don't find the despondence I expected, only a deep-set desire.
"But I alwaysknew," he brings his fist to his heart to emphasize his words, "that I was born for more. That one day I would be more thanthem." Bythem, he means men like my father and Roberto. "And now I know."
His eyes won't let go of mine, and the desire that burns in his intensifies. "What if I want to be the Don?"
I swallow. My heart jumps into my throat as I consider the consequences; scenarios run and play out through myhead. If he wants to be the Don, he needs to fight Edoardo. And possibly the other capos as well. It would mean a war. An ugly, brutal war.
I think of all the things he's done for me. Of how much he means to me. There is only one answer I can give him, "If that is what you want, then I will support you any way I can."
Something in him cracks then, not in weakness but release, like the weight of holding it alone is finally too much. His mouth curves, a smile that doesn’t quite hide the strain but is real all the same. He nods, more to himself.
"Is that what you want?" I ask.
"I want the option. I want to think about it." He answers honestly.
For a long moment, it’s just us, his forehead resting against my hands, the storm rolling outside, and the fragile, terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to face what’s coming.
But then the silence shifts. Not away from the storm, but deeper into it. His eyes search mine, raw and unguarded, and I realize this isn’t just about secrets or scars anymore. It’s about us. About what’s been building for years between us, buried and now clawing its way out. My breath catches because I can feel it, the want simmering beneath his restraint, the hunger in the way his hands still cradle mine like I’m something precious. Out ofnowhere, images of last night and the things he did to my body assault me. The way his mouth worshipped me, the way his touch asked and never took, the way he gave me the kind of pleasure I didn’t know existed. How my body had felt loose, unknotted, truly mine again afterward. It was more than release, it was an exorcism, a healing. It was proof that I could feel good without fear.
The memory sends warmth spiraling low in my belly, chasing back the shadows for just a moment. Maybe we both need this now. Him, with his darkness pressing in from every side. Me, with my ghosts clawing at my ribs. Maybe the only thing that makes sense in all this chaos is the way we fit together. Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and kiss him. Soft at first, almost testing, but the sound he makes against my lips is pure devastation. His grip tightens, his mouth answers mine with a desperation that undoes me.
The storm pounds outside, thunder rattles the windows as if the world itself is breaking open, and I don’t care. All I care about is the man beneath me, the man who has always been both my danger and my salvation.
