Chapter 23 Gio
GIO
I’m stunned. Speechless. Staring down at Stephanie like a statue trapped in Medusa’s lair.
Because Stephanie just recounted in fine detail the night she was abducted—the way she playfully said goodbye to me after dinner, the men pulling her into that dark van before tearing away.
That was the last time I saw her.
And every day since, I’ve agonized over what happened to her next.
She’s not having nightmares.
She’s reliving that day.
I’m sure of it.
But what hits me like a ton of bricks is that the men in her nightmare told her someone named Don Augusta sent them to “teach his son a lesson”.
That can only mean one thing.
They took her to teach me a lesson.
Which would suggest the family I held responsible for Stephanie’s murder had only kidnapped her under my father’s direct orders.
Horror settles like a lead weight in my belly to think that might be true. I slaughtered an entire family over what happened to her.
My father would have known the truth—and never said a word.
It makes sense, in a way, when I consider it more closely.
I’ll never know if my old man intended to have Stephanie murdered or just taken to scare her—and me.
He’s dead now, killed by his enemies, so I can’t just straight-up ask him.
But my father did make some shady deals in his lifetime—like taking my brother Miko from his biological family to ensure they wouldn’t rebel against him.
So it’s not too far of a stretch to imagine he would hurt Stephanie to put me in my place.
But in all this time, I’d never considered that he could be behind what happened to her that day.
When I met Stephanie, I knew my father wasn’t happy about my choosing to be with her.
He was certainly vocal about his disapproval that I would pick a common woman rather than a bride from a prestigious family.
I could see him taking matters into his own hands to ensure things ended differently.
Then again, Raf did much the same thing—even going so far as to marry the girl he chose to get under our father’s skin—and the Don never lifted a finger to stop him.
So, why would it be different for me?
“Talk to me, Gio,” Stephanie breathes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Glancing down, I realize with a start that she’s looking up at me, her eyes studying my face, anxious reticence in their green depths.
“I’m fine,” I assure her, running my knuckles across her tear-stained cheek.
“I’m just grateful that you would trust me with your dream.
” Then I swallow hard, the vise-like grip around my throat making it difficult.
“You’re sure these men in your dream say someone named Don Augusta sent them?
” I ask softly, not wanting to make it seem like I doubt her in any way, but aching for her to tell me that’s not what she heard.
Stephanie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows press together in a confused frown, and she thinks for several agonizing moments. “Yes,” she breathes.
My gut clenches, my chest caving in on itself as the weight of that fact threatens to crush the life out of me.
“Have you considered that maybe this recurring nightmare is your mind processing what happened to you that put you in the hospital?” I suggest—knowing that, even if it didn’t happen at that moment, these men were responsible for Stephanie’s amnesia.
She nods, her lips pressing together as her frown deepens. “It could be, but it also doesn’t make any sense—the name Don Augusta isn’t familiar to me.”
But it makes perfect sense to me.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, aching to be spoken into existence.
Now is the time I should tell her everything.
Clearly, she remembers something. And she deserves to know what happened to her—why it happened to her, and who is responsible.
Me.
I’m the reason she was taken—so my father could teach me a lesson about love, and how those we care for are a weakness.
He took Stephanie from me to put me in my place. Snuffed out the life she had—the one we’d built together—so he could better manipulate me.
It’s a crushing realization.
And one I can’t bring myself to confess to her. Not when she’s still trembling in the wake of her nightmare, her tears still wet on her cheeks.
“Whatever happened, you survived it,” I say instead. “Those men are gone. You’re safe, and I’m here,” I promise. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Stephanie nods, and she snuggles closer to me, resting her ear against my chest. “Thank you,” she murmurs so quietly, I almost miss it.
I press a soft kiss to the crown of her head as my chest aches with guilt-laced tenderness. “For what?”
“For listening—and for staying after,” she breathes.
“Always,” I rasp, my throat raw and burning with emotion.
I hold her close, cherishing the woman I’m so madly and deeply in love with that it hurts.
And gradually, her breaths even out and slow into the soft sounds of sleep.
God, I hope talking about it will help keep the nightmares at bay.
She needs rest, and a small part of me worries that the more she dreams about it, the closer she’ll get to discovering the truth—the truth about me.
I know that makes me a horrible person.
But I also know that this happy little bubble we’re living in is going to pop the moment she realizes who I really am.
And I dread that day.
After Stephanie’s story, I can’t sleep.
I stay awake late into the night trying to wrap my mind around what she told me.
More and more, it makes sense—the callous way my father said I could marry a proper match just days after Stephanie went missing.
We hadn’t even received news that she was dead yet, and I’d flown off the handle when he suggested I move on just like that.
Then there was his anger when he found out I slaughtered the entire family responsible for taking her.
My father had claimed I’d overreacted, made an impulsive decision that might come back to haunt the family, when Stephanie was nothing more than a fuck toy—even though the family was supposedly our enemy.
I close my eyes as a wave of white-hot fury washes through me.
I played right into his hands.
After Stephanie died, I dedicated my life to the family business, to being my father’s go-to man and Leo’s strategic advisor.
At least it didn’t work out entirely in his favor.
I never did marry any of the women he trotted out for me.
I knew it pissed him off that I refused to move on—and I resented him for wanting me to.
Now, it cuts even deeper knowing he set it up that way.
The sun cuts through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Miko’s sprawling entry like a blade, clean and sharp.
It’s too peaceful here—too bright, too quiet, too unlike the world I just came from.
“Miko?” I call—because my brother insists his staff have better things to do with their time than play butler.
No answer.
“Raf?”
Nothing.
They’re the two I would normally turn to when something was weighing me down, but it would seem they’re too busy to play therapist for me today.
Then I hear the dull, rhythmic thwack of fists hitting a heavy bag.
The sound echoes faintly from the open door leading down to the basement, and I follow it.
Sandro’s there, shirtless, tattoos darkening every inch of exposed flesh, all the way up to his jawline.
His wrapped hands fly in brutal combinations. Sweat darkens the waistband of his shorts, glistens on his neck.
He’s locked in, eyes narrowed, knuckles cutting through the air like they’ve got something to prove.
He hears me step in and doesn’t stop.
“Figures I’d find you here,” I say.
He jabs, crosses, steps to the side. “Miko and Raf are out. Strategy meeting with a potential ally or something. Nothing they need me for.” He grunts, his fist landing so hard it knocks dust loose from the ceiling where the bag is anchored. “You look like hell.”
I feel like hell.
I haven’t slept, haven’t eaten since last night—since Stephanie told me the details of her nightmare, ripping up my perceived reality and revealing truths like rot beneath creaking floorboards.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Mind if I stick around?”
Sandro huffs out a breath and pauses, turning his full attention on me for the first time. “Nah. Actually…” Crossing the room, he snags the roll of tape and tosses it at my chest. “Put this on.”
I raise a brow. “Seriously?”
“You said you didn’t come to watch.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it either.”
I catch the tape mid-air and pick absently at the edge of it. “You trying to beat some truth out of me?”
“Nah.” He grins. “You just looked like you needed to hit something.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in the ring, knuckles taped, breathing heavily. Sandro doesn’t go easy.
He never has.
We circle each other, feet light on the mat. He throws a jab. I dodge—barely.
“You’ve still got a solid left,” he says.
“Spent enough years breaking noses for the Don,” I mutter, jabbing back.
He blocks.
“Muscle memory.”
“Speaking of Dear Ol’ Dad…” His voice lowers. “You gonna tell me what’s got you pacing like a caged animal? As far as I recall, he’s the only one who could get you worked up like that.”
I hesitate, duck a hook, counter with one of my own. It lands, light but sharp. Sandro grins like I just paid him a compliment.
I breathe out hard. “Stephanie.” That’s all I say at first. Just her name, and it hits harder than any punch.
He drops his gloves slightly, giving me space.
“Our father gave the order to have her kidnapped,” I say, voice cracking on the word. “He didn’t just want me to forget her. He stole her from me.”
Sandro looks at me like he’s trying to see through the haze in my head. “Gio—”
“I loved her. I love her. And he ripped her out of my life like she was an inconvenience.”
Sandro exhales, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “You sure about this?”
“Stephanie remembered fragments of that day. Voices. Pain. They said Don Augusta sent them to teach his son a lesson. What else could it mean?”
Sandro shakes his head, pacing the ring now. “Jesus.”
I lean against the ropes, gloves dangling. “I mourned her. I blamed myself for failing to protect her from our enemies, like I'd said I could. And she—she was somewhere alone, rebuilding a life that wasn’t hers.”
He looks at me hard. “Does she remember everything?”
“Not yet. Pieces. Feelings. She sees my face in her dreams.”
“Does she know what you know?”
I shake my head.
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” he demands, taking up an offensive position and giving me only a moment’s notice before he strikes.
He swings. I duck.
Then I blink. “What?”
“If you still love her—and it’s clear you do—then you owe her the truth.”
It’s probably the most philosophical thing I’ve ever heard come out of Sandro’s mouth.
In truth, he’s got a lot more to say about this than he has about most things, and it makes me stop to listen—just long enough to catch a dirty right hook to the mouth.
“Damn it, Sandro!” I hiss, stumbling back.
Then I release my frustration in a huff.
“I just… haven’t found the right way to tell her. ”
Sandro scoffs. “When it comes to something like that, I don’t think you’ll ever find a right way. But she’s the one with all the questions,” he says, dropping his hands as he steps closer. “And you’ve got the answers. It’s not about what you can handle, Gio. It’s about what she deserves.”
I go quiet. His words are like body shots—sharp, precise, right where I’m tender. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if she hates me for not finding her sooner? Or for not recognizing the threat I was to her life?”
“Then you let her hate you. But at least she’ll be hating the truth.”
I nod slowly, and the throbbing in my chest dulls just enough for me to breathe. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, jerking his chin pointedly. “You’re bleeding from your mouth, by the way.”
I smirk, dragging the back of my hand across my lip. “You could’ve warned me before you snuck that uppercut.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, his lips tilting into a crooked grin. “Now get the hell out of here. It’s my turn to blow off steam.”
I shower quickly, the sting of hot water over bruises waking me up more than calming me down.
My knuckles are sore, my chest raw, but I feel lighter than I have in days.
I don’t stop to make a plan. I don’t second-guess it. I just drive.
A white van sits outside her shop as I pull up, several men carting flowers into the back before closing up, and the innocuous sight of it makes my heart pound after the reminder of the black van from Stephanie’s kidnapping.
It’s not the same one, but that doesn’t stop my protective instincts from kicking into overdrive.
Looking through the shop window with a purpose now, I find Stephanie’s silhouette moving behind the counter, her hands rearranging stems in a vase like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.
Just like me.
I step out of the car and cross the street.
No more waiting.
No more silence.
It’s time to give her the truth—whether I’m ready for it or not.
Because if anyone deserves the full picture of what happened to her, it’s the woman who lost her entire world and still managed to bloom.