Chapter 4 Gio
GIO
If there were any doubt in my mind that the phantom from my walk downtown was, indeed, Stephanie, when she turns to stand in the doorway of her dark-gray and white townhouse, I can’t deny the truth.
It hits like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of my lungs as I stare, stunned.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
If the little boy who called her Mom hadn’t clearly seen her as well, I would almost be certain I’m hallucinating.
After all, I have been thinking about the woman I lost far too often lately.
But with one last glimpse of her captivating green eyes before she closes her front door, I know it to my bones.
Stephanie’s alive.
Stephanie’s a mom.
And she’s here, safe and sound, living on a quiet street in the suburbs of Chicago.
Every part of me aches with how much I’ve missed her.
Seeing her fills me with an overwhelming need to be near her, to touch her and prove that I haven’t finally snapped and lost my mind completely.
It’s physically painful to see the truth with my own eyes, and yet here she is, carefree and oblivious about the fact that I’ve been mourning her death for eight agonizing years.
As soon as I lose sight of her, I’m on the move again, clinging to the shadows of her neighbors’ homes until I’m at the side of her picturesque little abode with its cheery yellow door and vibrant garden that could only be the handiwork of the woman I fell in love with a decade ago.
Stephanie’s always had a green thumb, so it doesn’t surprise me that her front yard looks like it came straight out of The Secret Garden.
Just one more piece of evidence to confirm the identity of the woman I followed home.
If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, “stalking” would be a more accurate term—especially considering the lengths I had to go to in order to keep up with her nonsensical path and remain unseen.
But I didn’t want to frighten the woman if she didn’t turn out to be who I thought she was. But now, there isn’t a shadow of doubt.
How could Stephanie have been alive all this time and never told me?
The question rises unbidden to the front of my mind, and I can’t staunch the hurt and anger that well up inside me.
Rounding the corner of the house, I follow the narrow pathway to the high-gated fence that hides her trash bin.
From there, I can spot her through the kitchen window as she washes vegetables in her farm-style sink.
An intense desire to barge through her door and demand answers surges through me.
But I have no clue what I would say.
I’m not sure I could even speak around the knot lodged in my throat.
All I can do is watch in disbelief and confusion as she pulls out a cutting board and starts to chop the broccoli flowers into tiny pieces.
Her dark pixie cut is slightly longer than she used to keep it, the soft black wisps falling into her eyes as she leans forward to focus on her task.
But the brilliant rainbow-colored highlights are just as colorful as always as they peek out from beneath the dark layers.
I always thought she looked a bit like the flowers she loves so much—vibrant and colorful and full of life.
Searing pain lances through my chest when I think about the last time I saw her.
The wide-eyed fear that accompanied her scream as masked men snatched her from the street.
She was so close—and yet just out of reach.
My complete failure to protect her that day has plagued me ever since.
Knowing that I held as much responsibility for her death as the men who killed her because I was the reason they took her in the first place—and I couldn’t keep her safe.
But she’s not dead.
She’s alive and standing less than twenty feet from me.
It might as well be a mile for all the distance that separates us.
She must hate me to have stayed away all this time—blame me for not protecting her like I said I could.
I couldn’t argue with her if that’s why she never told me she'd survived.
But knowing the truth would have spared me from years of self-torture.
A fresh wave of pain crests inside me as her head snaps up, that radiant, white-toothed smile parting her full lips as her head turns toward the stairs.
I dip back behind the edge of the window as the little boy reappears, then slowly lean forward once more.
Even if I couldn’t see the truth in the affectionate kiss Stephanie plants on the crown of his head, there’s no missing the resemblance.
He has her same beautiful green eyes and a wide, unassuming smile that reflects his mother’s love of life.
I can just make out their muffled words through the glass—something about taking out the trash—as a crushing sense of loss settles over me.
Because if Stephanie’s a mother, she must have decided to start a family with some other man.
And from the looks of it, she moved on a long time ago.
Stephanie combs her fingers through his wild shock of dark hair, then runs her fingers affectionately along his chin before giving her head a soft tilt.
He heads in that direction, and my stomach drops as I realize he’s going straight for the side door—and the trash bins not far from where I’m standing.
Moving quickly, I backtrack, making it to the communal sidewalk just before a door slams closed behind me.
If I were smart, I would keep on walking, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn to watch as the little green-eyed boy unlatches the tall gate, lifts the lid to the oversized trash bin, and with a huff of effort, slings a white trash bag up over the lip of the container.
He’s just tall enough to do any of it on his own, but he doesn’t seem to mind as a look of accomplishment brightens his face when the lid slams shut behind him.
“You’re pretty strong to be chucking bags that size over your head like that,” I observe, the desire to connect with Stephanie—even tangentially—overcoming my better sense.
The little boy turns, his lips tugging up into that wide grin as he meets my eyes. “Just helping Mom around the house,” he says with pride.
“I bet she’s glad to have such a good helper,” I say, taking an involuntary step closer. Then I grip the tip of one white picket along her fence to keep myself from going any farther. “What’s your name?”
The little boy’s chest puffs out, his shoulders tugging back in an adorable attempt to look more grown-up. “Jackson,” he says. “What’s yours?”
I can’t help but smile. “My friends call me Gio,” I say, extending my hand purely out of habit.
Jackson hesitates to take it, his glance almost shy as he looks down at my palm, but before I can withdraw the invitation, he closes the distance between us to shake.
His hand is small in mine, his olive skin healthy and tanned from a summer in the sun, and despite the size difference, he grips with confidence before quickly withdrawing.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jackson,” I say, putting my hand in my pocket to remind myself that I’m a stranger to this kid and should keep my distance.
But damn if he doesn’t look entirely too much like his mother when he stares up at me with those big green eyes.
“Nice to meet you too,” he says.
“Was that your mom with the colorful streaks in her hair?” I ask, trying for nonchalant, though my chest tightens with nervous anticipation of his answer.
“Yeah, she’s inside making dinner.” Jackson glances over his shoulder before turning back to face me.
“Oh? What’s she cooking?”
“Broccoli cheddar bake—my favorite!” he says with an enthusiastic grin.
“Sounds delicious. What is it?”
“You’ve never had it before? Oh man, you should try it sometime. It’s basically healthy macaroni and cheese with crispy breadcrumbs on top,” he says enthusiastically.
“Healthy macaroni and cheese?” I ask, my lips twitching with amusement at his description.
“Well, yeah, because it has broccoli in it.” He pulls a face that would clearly indicate that’s not the most appealing part of the dish, but then he shrugs. “But you can hardly taste it with all the cheese. Just don’t look too hard at the green bits, and you’ll forget they’re even there!”
I nod thoughtfully, doing my best to keep a straight face. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll definitely check it out.”
Jackson’s smile grows, his face splitting with that infectious exuberance that drew me to his mother from the very start, and my heart throbs with a fresh sense of loss.
It doesn’t escape me that this little boy could have been our little boy one day if I hadn’t failed Stephanie so completely.
The thought has my left hand releasing the fence and reaching for my chest to rub the hollow ache spreading across my ribcage.
Jackson’s eyes follow the movement, then widen with wonder.
“Are those tattoos real?” he asks, taking a step closer as he points to my exposed knuckles.
I chuckle, glancing down at the thick web of ink that climbs up the back of my one hand and forearm before disappearing beneath the rolled sleeve of my dress shirt. “Sure are. Have you seen one before?” Extending my arm, I let him take a closer look.
He does, leaning in as his eyes grow wider, his lips forming an O of fascination as one tiny finger lightly traces several lines.
“Chase says Mrs. Vance has one on her shoulder, but she always wears sleeves, so I’ve never seen it.
What’s ‘V-it-a mi-a’?” He breaks the words up into several bite-sized pieces, like someone who’s familiar with sounding out words he doesn’t yet know but can read.
“It’s an Italian term of endearment—for someone very special to me.”
“Are you Italian?” Jackson asks, his eyes snapping up to meet mine.
Before I can answer, the sweet melody of Stephanie’s voice filters through the window. “Jackson! Dinner!”
Jackson’s head dips, his expression turning apologetic as he glances over his shoulder then back to me. “Sorry. I gotta go,” he says.
“It was nice to meet you, Jackson. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Now that I know where my evening strolls will be taking me for the foreseeable future.
As messed up as it might be, I can’t see myself staying away from Stephanie.
She might have moved on from me, but I can’t walk away so easily—not now that I’ve found her.
I need answers.
Maybe I don’t deserve them, but I want them all the same, and if she won’t give them to me, perhaps her little boy will give me some insight into the years of her life I’ve been missing.
“See ya!” Jackson calls over his shoulder as he races back inside.
Watching him go breaks my heart into a thousand fresh pieces, each sharp edge cutting me from the inside as I watch the life we could have had from outside their window.
Once upon a time, that was everything I thought we’d wanted—a sweet little family in an idyllic little home.
Stephanie never wanted the money and prestige that came with dating someone from my family.
If anything, she brought me down a few pegs, made me more humble when I was too full of myself because I bore the name Chiaroscuro.
She taught me the beauty in the simple things, the joy that could be found in everyday life.
She always talked about wishing I would leave the Mafia behind. And after she was taken by my family’s enemies, I wondered if she thought it best to do so without me—because vanishing from my life would keep her safe.
Maybe she thought I would try to convince her to stay.
It wouldn’t have been the first time.
But I would have done anything—agreed to anything—if only it meant I could have her back. I still would.
Stepping back into the shadows, I watch through her window a bit longer as Stephanie carries a casserole dish to the small dining room table, where Jackson’s already sitting.
He bounces giddily in his chair, his excitement radiating from him, and the sweet scene tugs at my heartstrings.
Then my heart stops as Stephanie’s striking green gaze snaps in my direction, and for a split second, our eyes meet.
I know I’m hidden from view, but still, I jerk back instinctively, pressing my shoulder blades into the side of her townhome to ensure I’m completely out of sight.
I shouldn’t have come here.
I’m an intruder peeping in on their personal lives.
But morals seem so insignificant compared to my need to see her.
The desire to touch her—to feel with my own two hands that she’s a real, living person—is what finally drives me back a step.
Because I know without a doubt that if I broke into her home, that would be crossing a line I couldn’t come back from.
Stephanie chose to remove me from her life for a reason.
And while I can’t understand it, I can respect it—to a point.
I’ll try to keep my distance.
But I can’t stay away entirely.