"I know," he snaps, too fast, then reins it in. His voice drops into something rougher. "That's the problem."
He stands abruptly, creating space like it's the only thing keeping him upright. His hands rake through his hair; he paces once, twice, like a caged animal.
"I come home and hear you screaming my name," he mutters, not looking at me. "I walk in and find you drowning in a nightmare. And then you look at me like that—" He turns back, eyes blazing. "Like I'm the only thing keeping you from falling apart."
My throat tightens.
"Because you are," I whisper.
That stops him. Not cold. Not fully. But enough. He closes his eyes briefly, as if the weight of that sentence presses straight through bone. When he opens them again, something has hardened.
"This is not comfort," he warns quietly. "This is not mercy. And it is definitely not forgiveness." He looks at me like he'smemorizing every crack in my armor. "This is a mistake waiting to become a weapon."
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged and unfinished. I sit there, shaking, hands clenched in the sheets. Forgiveness? What doeshehave to forgivemefor? He turns toward the door, then stops.
Without looking back, he orders, "Get some sleep." Then, softer—so soft I almost miss it—"And don't scream my name like that again unless you mean to tell me why."
The door closes behind him. I collapse forward, forehead resting against my knees, my breath comes in ragged pulls. Because now I know the truth. I didn't justwakefrom a nightmare. I stepped right into another. Into the one where Massimo hates me for unknown reasons. Forgiveness? If anybody has anything to forgive, it's me. It was he who walked out on me. Wasn't it?
For the first time, I'm starting to wonder. Did he really leave me, or did something happen? But what? And why wouldn't he have contacted me?
Later that day…
The gym still smells like iron, sweat, and old violence. I need it. The weights. The burn. The punishment my body understands better than thought. Alessio and I go at it hard—pads first, then sparring—until my muscles scream and my lungs drag fire. He's good. Always has been. Fast, brutal, smart enough not to get sloppy when emotions are in play.
Doesn't stop him from reading me anyway. He steps back, rolling his shoulders, sweat running down his spine. "So," he says casually. Too casually. "A son?"
I snort, wiping my face with a towel. "Word spreads fast."
He grins. "You run a family. Gossip's part of the benefits package."
I don't bother denying it. There's no point. They'll all know soon enough.
"Yeah," I say. "Amauri."
The name feels strange in my mouth. Heavy. Permanent.
Alessio's expression shifts, not soft, but respectful. "That changes things."
"Everything," I agree.
He nods once. "Damiano find anything yet?"
"Not yet," I fill him in. "If he doesn't by tonight, I'll pay Senator Kingsley a visit myself."
Alessio's jaw tightens. "You want backup? I'm here." No bravado. Just fact.
I nod. "I know."
He said the same thing the first night we ran from cops into a Russian bar that didn't take kindly to boys carrying the wrong last names. We weren't brothers then. Not even close. Just reckless, territorial, and too proud to back down. He didn't owe me anything. He took the first punch anyway.
Outside, several SUVs idle, engines low and patient, waiting for us to step back into our roles. Men straighten when they see us. Doors open. The world slots back into place. I sink into the back seat and lean my head against the soft leather, eyes closing for half a second. Big mistake.
Instantly, I see green eyes. Wide. Shattered. Wanting. Her mouth still parted. The way her breath hitched. The way she melted into me like the last ten years never happened. The kiss. Her soft skin.
Fuck.
My body reacts instantly, traitorous and unforgiving. My cock turns painfully hard, like I'm twenty again instead of a man who should know better. Like she didn't rip something out of me and leave me bleeding in the street.
