Chapter 13 Julian #2
I opened it. Brief message: Package delivered for Julian Bianchi. Holding at front desk.
A package? Who would send me something at Inferno?
Dread settled in my stomach. I called the security desk.
"This is Julian Bianchi. You have a package for me?"
"Yes, sir. Courier delivery about twenty minutes ago. Want me to bring it up?"
"No. I'll come get it. Don't open it. Don't let anyone else touch it."
I grabbed my keys and headed to Inferno. The whole drive my mind raced. Who would send me something? How did they know to send it there?
At Inferno's security desk, they handed me a small padded envelope. My name written in elegant script across the front. No return address.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a single card. Expensive cardstock. Embossed edges.
Four words written in the same elegant script:
I'm watching, little spitfire.
No signature. None needed.
Dante.
The name he'd called me when I was sixteen. When he'd tried to force himself on me. When I'd put him in the hospital. You can't fight this forever, little spitfire.
He was reminding me he was still out there. Still watching. Still waiting.
I stared at the card and felt rage build in my chest.
Not fear. Not the terror I'd have felt a year ago. Not the helpless panic of someone trapped.
Just pure, white-hot anger.
I was done being scared. Done being a victim. Done letting men like Dante think they could intimidate me.
I'd destroyed my father's empire. I'd exposed Winston to his enemies. I'd influenced national media coverage of the FBI. I'd escaped an arranged marriage and built a new life on my own terms.
I wasn't that scared sixteen-year-old anymore.
Dante wanted to play games? Fine. He could watch all he wanted. But he'd see me thriving. See me fighting. See me refusing to be the victim he'd tried to create.
I pocketed the card and went to find Elio.
He needed to know what had happened. All of it. The articles. The exposure. The card.
And he was going to be furious.
I found Elio in his office at Inferno, staring at his computer screen with an expression like murder.
He looked up when I entered. His eyes were hard. Cold.
"You," he said, voice deadly quiet. "You've been writing articles. Attacking the FBI. Planting stories. All without telling me."
My stomach dropped. He already knew.
"Elio—"
"When were you planning to mention this?
Before or after your identity got exposed and you became a public target?
" He stood. Moved around the desk toward me.
"I just spent the last hour dealing with calls from Sandro asking why Winston Bianchi's son is publicly connected to us.
Why journalists are calling the club asking for comments about our 'whistleblower.
' Why your name and face are all over the news. "
"I was trying to help—"
"Help? You exposed yourself. Made yourself a target. Confirmed publicly that you're working with us." His voice rose. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Yes. I shifted public opinion against the FBI. I made their investigation politically untenable. I helped protect Inferno—"
"By putting yourself in danger!" He was shouting now. Actually shouting. I'd never seen him this angry. "You went behind my back. Took risks you weren't qualified to assess. Made yourself visible to every enemy your father has. To Dante. To—"
"About that." I pulled out the card. Handed it to him.
Elio read it. Went very still.
"When did this arrive?"
"Twenty minutes ago. Courier delivery to Inferno."
"He knows where you are. He's making sure you know he's watching." Elio's jaw clenched. "This is exactly what I was afraid of. You've made yourself a target. Given people like Dante permission to come after you."
"I'm not afraid of Dante."
"You should be. He's dangerous. Connected. And you just reminded him you exist and where to find you."
"Good. Let him know where I am. Let him know I'm not hiding.
I'm done being scared, Elio. Done being the victim.
Done letting people like him or my father or anyone else make me feel weak.
" I met his eyes. "I wrote those articles because you wouldn't let me help any other way.
Because I was tired of watching you destroy yourself trying to protect everyone while refusing to accept support. "
"So you decided to risk your safety without telling me? Without consulting anyone?"
"I made a choice. My choice. About my life and my safety and how I contribute to this world we're building." My own anger was rising now. "You don't get to control everything I do, Elio. I'm not some fragile thing that needs constant protection."
"You don't understand how dangerous—"
"Don't." I cut him off. Voice sharp. "Don't tell me I don't understand danger. I've lived in this world my entire life. I know exactly how dangerous it is. The difference is I'm choosing to fight instead of hide."
"Living in it and surviving it are different things—"
"And I've survived! I survived life with my father. Survived Dante's assault. Survived running across three states. Survived destroying my family's empire. I'm still here. Still fighting. Because I'm not weak, Elio. I'm not fragile. I'm dangerous. You told me that yourself."
"Being dangerous doesn't make you invincible!"
"And being protective doesn't make you right!
" I was shouting too now. "You've been working yourself to death for almost two weeks.
Barely sleeping. Barely eating. Obsessing over every possible threat while refusing to accept help from anyone.
That's not protection, Elio. That's control.
And I won't let you control me the same way my father did. "
He recoiled like I'd slapped him. "I am nothing like your father."
"Then stop treating me like I can't make my own decisions. Stop acting like my safety is more important than my agency. Stop trying to protect me from everything including myself."
"I'm trying to keep you alive!"
"I don't want to just be alive, Elio! I want to live.
I want to fight. I want to matter beyond being someone you have to keep safe.
" My voice cracked. "I wrote those articles because I needed to contribute.
Because sitting on the sidelines watching you fight alone was killing me.
Because I love you and I couldn't stand watching you destroy yourself. "
The words hung in the air between us.
I'd said it. Finally said it. In the middle of a fight. In the worst possible way.
Elio stared at me. Something shifted in his expression. Softened. Then hardened again.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't have taken risks that could get you killed."
The words cut deeper than any knife.
"If you loved me," I said quietly, "you'd trust me to know my own limits. Trust my judgment. Trust that I can fight my own battles."
"Julian—"
"No. You don't get to do this. Don't get to say you care about me and then treat me like I'm incapable. Either trust me or don't. But don't pretend this is about love when it's really about control."
I turned and walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Elio demanded.
"Somewhere you're not. I need space. We both do."
"Julian, wait—"
I didn't wait. Just left his office. Left Inferno. Called a car and went back to his apartment.
Our apartment? I didn't even know anymore.
I packed a bag. Grabbed my laptop and essentials. Left before Elio could follow me.
Texted him from the car: I'm staying at the room at Inferno for a few days. We both need time to cool down. Don't follow me.
His response came immediately: We need to talk about this.
I didn't reply. Just turned off my phone and tried not to feel like my heart was breaking.
I spent the first night in my old room at Inferno. It felt like going backward. Like undoing progress.
But I couldn't be around Elio right now. Couldn't face his anger or my own hurt or the weight of having finally said "I love you" and having it thrown back in my face.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Replaying the fight. Wondering if I'd overreacted. If he'd overreacted. If we could fix this.
My phone was off but my laptop was still on. I checked the news coverage. My name was everywhere. Former mafia prince. Whistleblower. FBI critic. Vitale associate.
Some articles painted me as a hero standing up to corruption. Others called me a criminal's son trying to undermine law enforcement. Nobody got it completely right.
I thought about Dante's card. I'm watching, little spitfire.
Let him watch. Let him see me refuse to be intimidated. Refuse to hide. Refuse to be the victim he'd tried to create.
I was stronger than he thought. Stronger than my father thought. Maybe even stronger than Elio thought.
I fell asleep sometime after 3 AM. Woke up at noon feeling hollow.
Day two was worse.
I stayed in the room. Ordered food from the kitchen. Avoided everyone. Worked on my laptop trying to manage the fallout from my exposure.
Several journalism contacts reached out. Some supportive. Some opportunistic. All wanting my story.
I declined them all.
Around 3 PM, Stefan knocked on my door.
"Go away," I called. I only unlocked the door for food.
"No. I'm coming in." He used a keycard—security override. Walked in and locked the door behind him. "You look like hell."
"Thanks."
"Have you talked to Elio?"
"No."
"He looks worse than you. Hasn't slept. Hasn't eaten. Working himself into the ground while looking like someone died."
"That's not my problem right now."
"Yes, it is. Because you're both miserable and stubborn and refusing to fix this." Stefan sat on the bed. "Talk to me. What happened?"
I told him. Everything. The articles. The exposure. Dante's card. The fight. The things we'd said.
Stefan listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
"You told him you love him," Stefan finally said.
"In the middle of a fight. After he basically said I was reckless and stupid. Great timing, right?"
"Did he say it back?"
"He said if I loved him I wouldn't have taken risks. Which is basically 'I don't trust you and also I'm not saying it back.'"
"That's not what he meant."
"How do you know?"
"Because Elio loves you. Obviously. Completely. He's been in love with you for weeks. Everyone can see it except apparently you." Stefan's voice was gentle. "That fight wasn't about you taking risks. It was about him being terrified of losing you."
"That's what you said last time we fought."
"And I was right then too. Elio's control issues come from fear. He lost people before. His sister was hurt by his stepfather. He spent years believing the only way to protect people was to control everything. When you took risks he couldn't control, it triggered every fear he has about loss."
"So what am I supposed to do? Just accept that he'll try to control me forever?"
"No. You set boundaries. You stand your ground. But you also understand where it's coming from." Stefan paused. "You were right to call him on it. To tell him you need agency. But he was also right that your exposure puts you in real danger. You're both right. That's why you're both so angry."
"How do we fix it?"
"You talk. Honestly. Not fighting. Actually communicating about what you both need. He needs to feel like he can protect you. You need to feel like you have agency. Find the middle ground."
"What if there isn't one?"
"There is. But you both have to be willing to look for it." Stefan stood. "Don't let pride or hurt feelings destroy something real. You love him. He loves you. That's worth fighting for. But fighting with each other isn't the same as fighting for each other."
He left me alone with those words.
I sat on the bed and thought about Elio. About the way he'd looked when I left his office. Hurt and angry and desperate.
About the things I'd said. Comparing him to my father. Accusing him of wanting control instead of love. Throwing his protection back in his face.
About the things he'd said. That I didn't understand danger. That I'd been reckless. That if I loved him I wouldn't have risked myself.
We'd both been wrong. Both been right. Both been hurt and scared and fighting from places of fear instead of love.
Stefan was right. This was worth fighting for. But not like this. Not against each other.
I needed to talk to Elio. Really talk. Not fight. Not defend. Just... talk.
But I didn't know how. Didn't know what to say. Didn't know if he'd even listen.
I picked up my phone. Turned it on for the first time in two days.
Forty-seven missed calls. Most from Elio.
Twenty-three text messages. All from Elio.
I scrolled through them.
Day 1, 8 PM: Please come back. We need to talk about this.
Day 1, 10 PM: I'm sorry for what I said. I was scared and angry and I said things I didn't mean.
Day 1, midnight: Julian please. Just tell me you're safe.
Day 2, 2 AM: I love you. I should have said it back. I was scared and stupid and I should have just said it back.
Day 2, 10 AM: I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying not to lose you. But I understand that's not the same thing.
Day 2, 3 PM: Stefan says you're okay but not talking. I'm here when you're ready. Take the time you need. I'll wait.
I stared at the messages. Read them over and over.
I love you. I should have said it back.
He'd said it. Finally. In a text message at 2 AM when he probably couldn't sleep.
Not romantic. Not the way either of us had imagined. But real. Honest.
And I'd missed it because I'd turned off my phone.
I typed a response: I'm ready to talk. But not like before. Really talk. Can you do that?
His response came within seconds: Yes. Where?
Our apartment. Tonight. 8 PM.
I'll be there.
I put down my phone and took a breath.
We'd fight for this. Fight for each other. Find the middle ground Stefan talked about.
Because he was right. This was worth it. Elio was worth it. We were worth it.
Even when it was hard. Even when we were both scared. Even when we hurt each other.
Love was worth fighting for.
I just hoped we could figure out how to fight together instead of apart.