Marco slides into the booth across from us. His movements are careful. Like he’s waiting for me to bolt again.
Ethan sits there with his arms crossed and his jaw tight, not giving anything away.
“I have no defense,” Marco says quietly. His voice is tired. “I hired a PI. After we met in Vegas I just needed to know where you were. Who you were. It was wrong, I know that now. And yeah, I befriended Ethan to get close to you.”
My brother’s hands curl into fists on the table until his knuckles turn white.
“But.” Marco looks at Ethan now. “The friendship became real. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought I’d just show up to jiu-jitsu, get the intel, move on. But you actually became my best friend. That part wasn’t fake.”
Ethan says nothing. His silence is somehow louder than any yelling would be. His knuckles aren’t as white, though, so there’s that.
“I’m sorry,” Marco continues. “For starting it as a lie. For manipulating you. For all the shit I said during the fight.” He pauses. Swallows hard. “I was trying to make you angry. Wanted you to hurt me. Punish me for what I’d do. I know that doesn’t excuse it but it’s the truth.”
Still nothing from Ethan.
Then Marco turns to me and the intensity in hiseyes makes my stomach do its old butterfly thing.
“I’ve realized I’ve loved you since Vegas,” he says. Just puts it out there like he’s ordering coffee. “Even though I was engaged. Even though I got married two days later. Even though I had a wife I should have been devoted to.”
Oh.
Oh no.
We’re doing this.
Right here in a hipster café in front of my brother.
“I felt guilty every single day,” he continues. His voice cracks slightly. “Disloyal. To Isotta. To her memory. Even after she passed, I couldn’t let myself want you because it felt like betrayal. I couldn’t—”
But I’m already moving. Sliding out of my side of the booth and into his, wrapping my arms around him before my brain can tell my body to stop.
He freezes for half a second. Then his good arm comes around me and holds on like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to earth.
I can feel him shaking.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
You’re trying to be strong and independent and definitely not in love with your former boss who hired a private investigator to stalk your life.
Too late. The tears are already coming.
Ethan makes a sound. When I glance over, his expression has softened from granite to something almost human. He reaches across the table and grips Marco’s shoulder. The injured one, but gently.
“I’m going to attend the trauma circle weekly,” Marco says into my hair. “And take actual therapy. Dr. Hale already has me scheduled. Full transparency with Ethan from now on. Nomore secrets.”
He pulls back enough to look at me. “And I want to fund Brave Kitchen. Scholarships for staff families. But at arm’s length. Supportive, not managerial. Your IP. Your vision.”
Oh God, he remembered. He actually listened when I rambled on about it.
“Nico Rossi told me something at the mirror circle,” Marco continues. A small, wry smile tugs at his scarred mouth. “He said I’d love myself again, mostly because I’d get bored of hating myself.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It comes out kind of watery and broken but it’s real.
“That’s actually pretty accurate,” Ethan mutters. His first words since we sat down.
And then we’re all laughing. And crying. And hugging like a bunch of emotionally damaged people who finally figured out how to have one honest conversation.
