Chapter 49
Marco
Five days since Jess walked out and I’m sitting at my desk staring at spreadsheets that might as well be written in fucking hieroglyphics for all the sense they make right now.
The numbers blur. Revenue projections. Labor costs. Food costs hovering at thirty-two percent when they should be twenty-eight.
My face has healed somewhat. Just a bunch of bruises and scabs over the bear scars.
My shoulder, however, isn’t fairing as well.
The torn tissue from my fight with Ethan still hasn’t healed.
In fact it’s been throbbing all day. Neli keeps telling me I need to rest. Stop moving.
Let the goddamn skin knit back together.
I ignore her.
Rest means thinking. Thinking means remembering. Remembering means seeing Jess climb into that Range Rover without looking back.
So I work instead.
My phone buzzes. Text from Gianna: Need you on the call in ten. Investor update. Can’t push it again.
I type back with my good hand. Will be there.
The video call icon appears on my laptop exactly ten minutes later. I answer audio-only. Camera off.
“Marco?” Gianna’s voice comes through. “We need video for this one. The investors specifically requested Facetime.”
“Audio only,” I tell her flatly.
A pause. Then she tries again. “They’re putting in another two million. They want to see the person they’re investing in.”
“Then tell them to go fuck off and find someone else. We’re not fucking interested.”
The words come out harder than I intended.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Marco.” Her tone becomes softer, but still firm. “You can’t keep doing this. Hiding. Running the company from the shadows. Scaring investors away. Eventually people are going to notice.”
“Let them notice.” I close my eyes. Rub at the scar on my cheek without thinking, and rip off one of the scabs Ethan left. I flinch at the pain.
Fuck.
“I’m still running things,” I finish through gritted teeth. “Still making decisions. The business doesn’t need my face.”
“The business needs its founder to show the fuck up,” Gianna snaps. “You built this on your image. On being the beautiful restaurateur everyone wanted to photograph. You can’t just disappear and expect the brand to survive.”
Beautiful.
Past tense.
I laugh bitterly. “The brand will survive. Or it won’t. Either way I’m not turning on the camera.”
“Jesus Christ, Marco.” She sighs. “Fine. I’ll tell them you’re dealing with medical complications. But this can’t continue indefinitely.”
“Whatever.” The call ends.
I sit there staring at the blank screen.
She’s right. Of course she’s right. The business is bleeding out slowly. Not from bad food or poor service.
But from lack of presence.
Lack of me.
A knock at the door of my suite interrupts my dark thoughts.
“Mr. Fiore?” Neli’s voice. “Benedetta is asking for you.”
Ben.
She finally came back from the in-laws yesterday. I heard her arrive. Heard her little voice asking Neli where Jess was.
Neli told her Jess had to leave for a while. That she’d be taking care of her instead.
Ben cried.
Fucking balled her eyes out for hours.
I listened through the door like the coward I am and did nothing.
“Tell her I’m working,” I say.
“She’s been asking for you all day,” Neli continues. “She needs her father.”
“And I need to finish this budget review.”
It’s a lie. The budget is fine. I’ve been staring at the same column of numbers for twenty minutes without actually seeing them.
But admitting that means admitting I can’t face my own daughter.
“Mr. Fiore.” Neli’s voice gets an edge that says she’s done being polite. “Your daughter needs you. Not Jess. Not me. You.” She pauses, tries: “She already knows what you look like.”
“I said I’m fucking working!” The words come out too loud. Too harsh.
Silence.
Then footsteps. Moving away.
I drop my head into my hands.
This is what I’ve become. A man who hides from his five-year-old because facing her means facing what I’ve lost.
I grab my phone. Open Instagram. Type in Jess’s old handle.
Her account is still there. Profile photo unchanged. That warm smile and those curves that used to make me lose my fucking mind.
I scroll through her feed. Old posts from months ago. Make-up tutorials. Product reviews. The glossy influencer shit she used to do before the algorithm turned on her.
Nothing new.
No updates.
No indication of where she is or what she’s doing or if she’s thinking about us at all.
I close the app. Open my messages instead.
The last text from her was five days ago. Before she quit. Before the little fight with Ethan.
I type out a message. Delete it. Type another. Delete that, too.
What the fuck am I supposed to say?
Sorry I hired a private investigator to stalk your life?
Sorry I manipulated your brother into being my friend so I could orbit you like some obsessed creep?
Sorry I dragged you and my daughter into the woods where a bear tore my face off and traumatized everyone?
Sorry I’m too fucked up to even look at you now?
I put the phone down.
The room feels smaller, like the walls are closing in and the air’s running out.
Which it probably is.
This is what I deserve.
Isolation.
Loneliness.
A life where I run a successful business from the shadows while my daughter cries for someone who actually knows how to be there for her.
Another knock.
“Go away,” I tell whoever it is.
The door opens anyway.
I look up ready to snap at that fucking bitch Neli for ignoring a direct fucking order.
But it’s not Neli.
It’s Ben.
She’s standing in the doorway clutching Frederick against her chest. Her hair is in two lopsided braids that Neli probably tried her best to manage. Her eyes are red.
“Daddy?” Her voice is small. Uncertain.
I should tell her to leave. Protect her from seeing me like this too often.
Instead I hear myself say, “Come here, piccola.”
She crosses the room. Climbs onto my lap. Tucks herself against my good shoulder.
I wrap my arm around her and hold her close.
She smells like the lavender shampoo Jess used to buy. A scent that hits me like a punch to the gut.
“I miss Jess,” Ben whispers.
“I know.”
“Is she coming back?” Ben presses.
The question hangs there, heavy and impossible.
I want to lie. Want to tell her yes, of course, Jess will be back soon.
But I can’t.
“I... I don’t know,” I tell her instead.
Ben pulls back and looks up at me. She studies my face.
“Your scars don’t look scary to me anymore,” she announces.
The words hit harder than they should. “No?”
She shakes her head. “They just look like you got hurt. But you’re still Daddy.”
My throat goes tight.
This kid. This perfect, brave, beautiful kid who lost her mother and got dragged through hell by her father and still somehow finds it in herself to offer grace.
I don’t deserve her.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. The words come out rough, and I find myself blinking more than I should because my eyes fucking sting. “For hiding. For not being there.”
“It’s okay.” She leans back against me. “Dr. Hale says sometimes grown-ups need space to heal too.”
Smart kid.
We sit like that for a while. Her tucked against me. Frederick squished between us. The silence comfortable in a way I haven’t felt in weeks.
Finally she asks, “Can we call Jess?”
My chest tightens again. “I don’t think she wants to talk to me right now.”
“But maybe she wants to talk to me,” Ben points out with five-year-old logic that’s irresistible.
I sigh.
She’s right.
Even if Jess hates me. Even if she never wants to see my scarred face again. She might still want to hear from Ben.
I pull out my phone. Open Jess’s contact.
My thumb hovers over the call button.
Then I hand the phone to Ben instead.
“You do it,” I tell her.
She takes the phone. Her small fingers press the button.
The ringing fills the room.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then voicemail. Jess’s voice. “Hey, you’ve reached Jessica. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
“Hi Jess,” Ben says into the phone. Her voice wobbles. “It’s Ben. I miss you. Daddy misses you, too, even though he won’t say it. Can you come back? Please?”
She hangs up.
Looks at me with those eyes full of hope and hurt.
“She’ll call back,” I tell her. Another lie. “She’s probably just busy.”
Ben nods. I get the sense she doesn’t really believe me.
I don’t blame her.
She climbs off my lap. Takes Frederick and heads for the door.
“Ben?” I say to her back.
She turns.
“I love you, piccola.”
That causes a small smile. “I love you too, Daddy.”
Then she’s gone.
I sit there alone again. Staring at my phone. At Jess’s contact.
The message Ben left is probably sitting on her voicemail right now. A five-year-old begging her to come back.
If that doesn’t work, nothing will.
Look at me, relying on my five-year-old to patch up a relationship I fucked up.
No.
The only way this will get fixed is if I do something.
I have to act.
My fingers move before my brain catches up. Typing out a text to both Jess and Ethan.
Dinner. Tonight. Neutral location. For Ben’s sake. Please.
I stare at the message. Delete the please. Too desperate.
Add it back.
Fuck it.
I am desperate.
Send.
The three dots appear almost immediately on Jess’s end.
My heart pounds.
Her response: Only if Ethan comes.
Fair. She doesn’t trust me alone. Can’t blame her for that.
I type back: Works for me. Valentina will send details.
Ethan’s response comes next: This better not be some bullshit power play.
I don’t respond to that. Just forward both messages to Valentina with instructions. Neutral café. Off the books. Seven pm.
I close my eyes. Lean back in my chair.
Something has to change.
Either I figure out how to put myself back together.
Or I lose everything that matters.
Tonight.
I start tonight.
Three hours later I’m sitting in the back of the Range Rover outside some neutral café in Tribeca that Valentina booked under a fake name.
Off the books. Off the calendar. No public record.
Filepe swept the perimeter twice. Staged exits. Confirmed there were no street cameras with eyes on the building. The whole paranoid playbook.
She might not show.
Probably won’t show.
But I had to try.
For Ben. For myself. For whatever scraps of us might still exist under all the damage.
Jag opens the door. “She’s inside. Back corner booth. Her brother’s with her.”
My heart kicks against my ribs.
She came.
I adjust the N95 mask. Pull the cap lower. Then exit the vehicle.
I enter the café. It’s small, and I spot them almost immediately.
Back corner booth like Jag said. Jess is staring at her phone. Ethan sits across from her, arms crossed, jaw tight. Protective brother mode fully engaged.
His knuckles are healed. No visible marks from our fight.
Mine aren’t.
Jess’s hair is pulled back. She’s wearing jeans and a slightly oversized sweater.
She looks tired. Worn down. The kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying weight she was never meant to hold alone.
I did that to her.
I move toward the booth. My shoulder protests with every swing of my arm.
Ethan sees me first. His whole body goes rigid.
Then Jess looks up and sees me.
Her expression instantly hardens. Walls going up behind those eyes that used to look at me with something softer.
She starts to stand.
“I can’t do this,” she says quietly.
Fuck.
She’s leaving.
Already.
Won’t even give me a chance.
But I already know why...
The mask.
I can’t hide.
Can’t hide anymore.
“Jess.” My voice comes out muffled through the mask. “Please.”
She stops halfway between sitting and standing.
Ethan watches us both. Silent. Letting his sister handle this her way.
I reach up with my good hand.
Remove the cap first. Then the mask.
Let them see what’s left.
All of it.
Everything the bear left behind.
Jess’s eyes widen. Her hand goes to her mouth.
My heart rate is going through the roof, but I just stand there.
Exposed.
Waiting for whatever comes next.