Chapter 6 #13
"It hits me too. I'm not walking out of this spotless. Your dad hates my guts. My family's on my ass. The company will love having another reason to call me unstable. You already know that."
I nod.
"But nobody's going to ask how I feel about it. They're just going to point and go, 'of course it was Gio. He ruins everything.'"
Shit.
I'm impressed and terrified at the same time.
Gio feels. Like, properly feels.
Real things. Deep things.
Messy things he clearly doesn't show anyone. For the first time, I'm seeing a side of him that isn't performative or pre-loaded for shock value.
This isn't a show. This is him. Proof that he's just a person who got cracked in the wrong places and learned to scream instead of cry.
And I feel kind of awful, honestly, because I realize I've done it too. I treat him like he's "broken." Like he can't possibly get hurt because he's always the one doing the damage.
I know he's had it rough after everything with his dad. I know more than he thinks I know.
I know what happens to someone when the person who is supposed to love them unconditionally dies and leaves behind more chaos than comfort.
Do I ask? Is this the moment?
I don't know if it's the right time. I don't know if there is a right time with him. He's like a door that never fully opens, and right now it's cracked just enough for me to see inside.
He trusts me with that. And we're alone.
No audience to perform for.
I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to learn him like this.
Without yelling, without sarcasm, without us barking at each other like a dog and a cat locked in the same room.
I'm scared to ask. Scared he'll shut down. Scared I'll touch a wound that still bleeds. But I'm also scared of not asking.
Because for the first time, I actually want to know who Gio is when he's not being "Gio Fontana, problem child of the universe."
"...Gio?"
He turns his head slowly. I meet his eyes.
"What happened to your dad?"
He doesn't answer right away. His jaw tightens first. Then his shoulders. He looks away, nodding to himself like he's expecting it. Like maybe he's surprised it took me this long.
"He killed himself."
Oh.
My chest pulls tight.
Gio stares at the ground now, both hands on the edge of the rooftop, gripping it.
"Many years ago," he says. "Took a walk. Never came back. They found him... at the base of a building... four towns over."
He laughs. "No note. Not even a goddamn text. Just gone."
My fingers tighten around the bottle in my hand.
How many times did he say this out loud to sound that calm?
How many times did he cry before he got to this version, where the words come out so clean?
Because nobody gets to that tone for free. You don't just wake up one day and say "oh yeah, my dad killed himself" like that unless you've already bled over it a hundred times where no one can see.
I imagine him hearing that news. Or finding out how. How many nights did he fall asleep with swollen eyes before he learned to say it like a trivia fact?
"I—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "Gio..."
He doesn't look up.
I swallow hard. "I didn't know."
"I don't blame you," he says. "Most people don't. My mother probably lies about it to everyone."
I don't know how to hold all of this.
This man looks untouchable.
And he carries this.
He carries this.
My voice is barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
He gives a tiny shrug. "It is what it is."
"No, it's not," I say quickly.
"After it happened, everyone who knew him talked like they were experts. Like they know what led to it. They say he was tired. Depressed. Overworked."
He pauses. "No one mentioned your father."
My heart starts beating faster. "What?"
He looks up now. "Not that it's your fault, but your dad ruined him." He goes on, slower.
"They built the company together. Partners. At first. But then your father decided mine is 'dead weight.' Started shutting him out. Undermining him. Publicly. Humiliating him in front of clients. Took all the credit. Took everything."
I shake my head. "I didn't know that."
He stares at me. "Of course you didn't. Why would they tell you?"
I'm so embarrassed. My eyes sting. I don't know what to say.
There's no right sentence for "my dad killed himself."
Nothing I say is going to make that smaller, or less ugly. So I do the only thing that makes sense in my head.
I do what he did for me when I needed it.
I put my bottle down, turn toward him, and wrap my arms around him.
For a second he goes completely still. Whatever.
He can make fun of me tomorrow. Right now, I'm doing what I feel like he actually needs. I press my cheek against his shoulder, hold him a little tighter.
I don't let go. Because when I was falling apart, he didn’t give me a speech. He just showed up.
So that's what I'm doing now. "I'm so sorry," I say again, but this time it cracks.
"Gio, I... I didn't know. I swear I didn't."
He pats my back.
"I wish I could go back," I whisper. "Undo it. All of it."
"Don't," he says, finally.
I look at him.
He shakes his head. "Don't apologize for something that isn't yours."
"But it feels like it is," I say. "Because I have his name. His blood. His house. And you—"
I stop.
Because saying the rest out loud hurts. And because he's looking at me with something I haven't seen before.
Ache.
"That's also one of the reasons why I used to mess with you."
He still doesn't look.
"You were always so... perfect. Quiet. Smart. You had this family that looked like they have it all together. You had him."
I swallow. He lets out a small, bitter laugh.
"And I had just lost mine."
Silence. But not empty.
He adds, softer now, "I looked at you and saw what I lost. What he should've been. What we should've been."
His voice cracks. "So I kinda took it out on you."
The world around me goes quiet. Everything in my head is white noise. All those years. All those jokes, offensive comments.
They weren't just him being a jerk.
They were a boy falling apart.
A boy in pain.
And I didn't know.
He tips the bottle to his lips again slowly. His throat moves as he swallows, and I catch myself staring too long.
"So..." he says. "How'd your old man take the news that his golden boy got tragically seduced by my filthy mouth?" he asks, and he actually laughs.
The sound is so out of place after what he just told me that I can't help it, I start laughing too.
I laugh because I can hear the shift.
The way he's trying to drag us out of that heavy place and throw us back into something lighter that doesn't involve death.
I'm not about to press him back into that wound.
"Oh, you should've seen it," I say, settling into the rhythm he'd set.
"He looked at me like I set fire to the family crest. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend."
Gio starts laughing. His eyes stay on me.
I don't look away. But I don't say it.
I don't tell him what really happened. That my father actually slapped me. That I stood there, stunned, while my mother didn’t say a word.
Because Gio would feel something. And I can already see the flicker of tension behind his smirk. So I keep it light.
"I thought he was gonna throw me off the damn balcony."
We both laugh at my joke, but holy shit.
The way he's looking at me, and the way I'm looking back, is not funny at all.
The whole mood shifts.
His eyes stay on mine a little too long, while mine don't move away fast enough.
And suddenly I feel warm. Very warm.
Maybe it's the beer. It has to be the beer.
My face feels hot for no reason. My brain starts throwing up thoughts I'm not ready for. Stupid thoughts.
Like hm, what it would be like to kiss him up here without an audience. With no plan, no fake story, no "helping."
Just because I want to. Just because why not.
I take another sip just to have something to do, but it doesn't help.
He leans closer. "What do you think they'd do if they saw me... touch you here?"
His fingers trail up the inside of my forearm.
Probably drag us straight to a quick public decapitation, I think.
Clean cut. Fast. No time to scream.
And maybe it would be worth it.
"Or," he continues, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "if I kissed you again... properly this time. Tongue and teeth and all. In front of everyone."
Yeah. That one would earn us the slow decapitation.
Extra dramatic. Let us suffer a little first.
And maybe that would be worth it too.
I know I should wake up and do something. Say something.
Push him away, remind him of fathers and companies and contracts and everything waiting to crush us on the ground floor.
I should stop him. I know I should. But I literally can't.
My body just refuses to cooperate.
His hand moves higher.
From my side... to my ribs.
From my ribs... to my collarbone.
From my collarbone... to my neck.
The higher his hand goes, the faster my pulse climbs.
He moves closer, when I already thought there was no space left between us.
It's dangerously close now. He moves in this slow, hypnotic way.
He doesn't give me time to feel awkward. He just slides us straight past this is weird into oh, I'm melting, okay.
He tilts his head, and his fingers slide up, landing right on my throat, right over my Adam's apple. He moves them slowly, up and down, using barely any pressure.
I force myself to look at him. He's already watching me, with the hungriest, sluttiest look I've ever seen, while still tracing those slow lines up and down my throat.
"And what if I say I want you to make that sound again?" he whispers.
"The one you make when I grabbed your beautiful hair..."
No. No, no, Gio, please.
Don't throw compliments at me like that.
That's torture. For my body and my brain. I try not to show it, I keep looking at him, pretending I'm fine.
I fail. I turn my head away, because it's too much. He brushes his nose along my jaw. "You want me to stop?"
No, I don't.
God, I really, really don't.
And that's exactly why you need to stop, Fontana.
Because I don't want you to. I'm not strong enough for this.