Chapter 2 Gio
GIO
“I say we strike now while the tide is shifting,” my brother Sandro growls, fisting his tattooed knuckles on the table.
Miko nods. “It’s time we show the Tanakas and Murrays just what a terrible mistake they made messing with the Chiaroscuro family.”
My adopted brother—oldest of the five of us—smiles, his eyes glinting.
Their signature blue mark him as distinctly different from the rest of my hazel-eyed family, and only recently did we discover he is, in fact, the heir to the Novikov empire, rightful Pakhan to Chicago’s ruthless Bratva—a title he laid claim to just days ago.
And while that means we now have a combined force of both our Italian allies and the Russian Bratva who own the streets of Chicago, after the violence we’ve faced these past few months, I dread the idea of exacerbating the conflict between us and the Yakuza and Irish Mob.
“We don’t have the numbers,” Raf cuts in, his cold, hard logic easing the knot of tension in my chest ever so slightly. “And we don’t yet have Don Parelli’s blessing to name Gio the new head of the Chiaroscuro family.”
Don Parelli.
It seems like a lifetime ago that he and his cohorts flew in from Italy to give my oldest legitimate brother, Leo, their blessing to take over as Don for our father.
And while I like the Parellis well enough, I don’t relish the idea of taking Leo’s place now that he’s abdicated to chase a normal life with his pregnant wife, Sora.
But considering I’m next in line—especially now that Miko has taken over the Novikov throne—it’s my obligation to reclaim our family’s territory and punish the men who ever thought they could take what’s ours.
Still, I loathe the idea of violence.
The only thing that comes of it is more blood.
Closing my eyes, I scrub my forehead with my fingers and comb them back into my hair.
I’ve dedicated my life to helping my father run the family business since the day I learned that the love of my life was dead.
And now, with our father murdered in cold blood and our empire in ruins, it feels as though my life has been thrown into complete chaos.
The devastation of our family has reopened scars I’d thought had healed after losing Stephanie eight years ago.
And yet, rather than wanting revenge like my brothers, who seem determined to reclaim our birthright, I feel as though I’m slipping away, my reasons for existence transitioning from shadow to complete apparition.
“We might not have the numbers, but we have the thirst for vengeance,” Miko points out.
“And there’s no doubt in my mind Don Parelli will give Gio his blessing—especially if we take back our territory,” Sandro says. “Gio was always his favorite, anyway.”
“We need to be strategic about this,” Raf counters, always the sensible one—even though he has more reason than any of us to want the Yakuza dead for killing his wife along with our father.
“Miko might have given us allies with the Bratva, but we’ve both taken such a hit, it will be a marginal victory at best if we try to take on the Yakuza alone.
And we don’t know yet where the Murrays stand. ”
“Gio?” Miko presses.
All eyes turn on me as tension vibrates through the air.
Sighing, I drop my hands and stretch my neck from side to side, willing my muscles to relax. “I agree with Raf. We need a proper plan if we want to seek vengeance.”
“What do you mean if?” Sandro demands, the small eight-point nautical star on his right cheek crinkling as his eyes narrow.
“I mean that as much as I understand you’re all angry, violence only begets violence,” I say, trying to keep the strain out of my tone.
“We have a better chance of resolving this if we can find some kind of peaceful solution. The Tanakas lost their only daughter when Sora chose to elope with Leo. And with Kenji dead, they no longer have an heir to take over when Tatsuo is gone. The Tanaka empire will crumble without our help soon enough.”
“But that’s just it,” Miko counters. “With Kenji out of the picture, they no longer have someone to lead their forces. Tatsuo’s too old to step back into that role, which means the Yakuza are at their weakest right now. We should take advantage of it.”
Sighing heavily, I look back to Raf for support.
My youngest brother—twin to Sandro, whom he is identical to in every way except for his choice in tattoos—couldn’t be more different from Miko and his twin when it comes to using logic to assess a situation rather than barreling in headfirst.
If anyone is going to side with me, it’s him.
“I said we need a plan,” Raf says flatly, his eyes cold yet burning with unquenchable rage. “Not that I’m going to let those animals live after what they did to my wife.”
Resignation settles heavily in my stomach.
It’s not that I don’t want to avenge Genevieve’s death—or our father’s, though he was a rather hard, distant man, and I doubt there was much love lost for any of us the day Kenji put a bullet between his eyes.
But I fear that another fight will only end in more death, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to survive the death of another person I care about.
I give a heavy sigh. “Very well. I can see I’m outnumbered. But I’m done losing people I love—even if it’s one of you reckless idiots. So, if we’re doing this, we’re going to do it smart. No rushing in, guns half-cocked.”
“My gun is never half-cocked, brother,” Miko jokes, giving me a wink. “Just ask Anika if you doubt me.”
The twins chuckle, Raf rolling his eyes as the tension in the room finally breaks.
Still, even after the meeting is done, I can’t help the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I might have lost Stephanie nearly eight years ago, now—when I was still young and reckless like my brothers still are, when I thought I was invincible and my family name could get me out of tight spaces.
But losing her impacted me in ways my brothers will never understand.
They know her death hit me hard, but I don’t think any of them have a clue that Stephanie still haunts my dreams and every waking moment.
The absence of her still feels like a gaping hole where my heart should be.
And no matter how much time passes, that pain doesn’t lessen.
I haven’t found it in me to even consider falling in love again.
Hell, after having the woman I was madly in love with ripped from me like that, I still find it hard to come up with a reason to get out of bed each morning, to make it from one day to the next.
The only thing keeping me going is my brothers’ presence. And losing one of them could truly be the end of me.
“Gio, you coming?” Raf asks, pausing in the doorway of Miko’s conference room.
Only then do I realize I’ve been staring out the window, oblivious to where my brothers intend to head next.
Regardless of their destination, I’m not ready to join them. I need some time to clear my head. “That’s alright. I think I’ll go for a walk,” I say, something I’ve been doing a lot of lately because it seems to be the only thing that helps.
Raf gives a single nod, patting the door jamb before turning to follow Miko and Sandro from the room.
Running my hand over the stubble of my jaw, I take a minute to consider the ramifications of agreeing to support my brothers’ plan.
In the end, my only consolation is that I’m sure they would go after the Tanakas with or without my blessing—so backing them will only increase their chances of survival.
But that does little to ease my growing sense of foreboding.
With a final heavy sigh, I plant my palms on the table and rise from my chair, exiting the room through the same door as my brothers.
The streets of downtown Chicago are bustling with foot traffic as civilians get off work for the evening and head home.
Their strides are intentional and enthusiastic, like they’re eager to get somewhere—or away from the place they’ve been for the past eight hours.
Lost in the bustle, I can feel my own troubles settle at the back of my mind, ready to come forward when I’m in the quiet, alone once more.
It’s a muggy late-summer day, the sun brutal as it glares down on me.
A trickle of sweat works its way from the back of my collar down the curve of my spine until it finds the mint-green fabric of my dress shirt beneath my tailored Italian suit.
It’d be a cold day in hell when the world might find one of the Chiaroscuro brothers out in public wearing anything less sophisticated—aside from Sandro, maybe, who prefers the bare-knuckle boxing ring and therefore a bare chest and boxing shorts to the suits our father raised us to prefer.
But the heat feels something like penance as my thoughts linger on the long-buried memories all this recent violence and unrest have dredged up.
Memories of the last time we got into a conflict with a rival family—an Italian family that wanted to take over our territory and chose to make a statement by stealing Stephanie right out from under my nose.
I can still recall that evening with perfect clarity—Stephanie and I exiting out onto the sidewalk after a romantic dinner together, her stepping out of my arms and away from me with that enigmatic smile that never failed to steal my breath away, the sound of tires screeching as they jumped the curb, the men pulling her into a black van, then racing off before I could get to her.
Her body was never found, but the message they sent my father made it clear that searching would be futile.
She was gone, just like that.
Taken from me, her perfect, beautiful, creative life snuffed out, all so someone could make a point.
I brutally murdered every last man responsible.
I killed every single member of that family.
I wiped their name off the face of this earth, never to be uttered again.
I’d gone half-mad with grief, and after all that blood was shed, I didn’t feel a lick better for it.
It only made me realize that if there were a heaven, I had just condemned myself to an eternity without ever seeing Stephanie’s face again.
Because I had no doubt they would never let me inside the pearly gates. Not after what I did.
Since that realization, I’ve abhorred violence—not that my change of heart has any chance of changing the likelihood that I’ll ever get to see my love again.
She was made to be an angel.
And I’ll be damned to the deepest pits of hell.
The dark meandering of my thoughts carries me down the Magnificent Mile and around a corner, my feet taking me in a random direction.
I shouldn’t be out here alone—not with tensions as high as they are between our family and the Tanakas, or the Murrays.
But my life has become too claustrophobic.
I was never meant to hold the Chiaroscuro throne.
That was Leo’s burden to bear.
And suddenly, it feels like the weight of the world has been dropped on my shoulders.
But when I wander the city streets—like any other businessman on his way home after a full day of work—I can pretend I’m no one important.
I can breathe. I can process.
And I can pray that one day, the fighting can stop.
My heart skips a beat as movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye—a flash of brightly colored hair peeking out from a dark pixie cut.
I nearly give myself whiplash, responding to the trick my eyes must be pulling on me.
But I can’t help myself.
It’s instinctual, looking for Stephanie in a crowd—even when I know she’ll only ever be a ghost.
Then my eyes land on the petite figure weaving her way through the crowd.
My pulse quickens, the hair rising along the nape of my neck as a sense of familiarity blasts through me like a speeding bullet.
I know the woman can’t be Stephanie.
But from this angle, with just the edge of her profile and the back of her head and delicate, curving neck, I swear it has to be her.
She even moves the same way, her brightly colored summer dress swirling around her calves as she strides with purpose, moving effortlessly toward the L despite having to work against the flow of traffic.
“Stephanie?” I call, raising my voice, because I can’t seem to help myself.
Even if I know it’s not her, my heart is hammering against my ribs, my feet carrying me toward her with a sense of purpose that I haven’t known before.
She doesn’t turn or even slow—and then she vanishes through the turnstile and onto the platform as she races to catch the train that just pulled into the station.