Chapter 25 Gio
GIO
I see it hit her—the memory, the recognition.
Stephanie’s face twists from shock to horror in the blink of an eye, and she sways back from me like the ground’s just been ripped out from under her.
I move toward her instinctively, my arms tightening around her, but she shoves me away with both hands.
My heart stops.
“Stephanie, I—”
Her eyes are wild. “Don’t call me that.”
She’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling, and the look in her eyes is pure betrayal.
Not fear. Not confusion. Not anger.
Betrayal.
“I can explain,” I say quickly, taking her hands.
She rips them away. “Explain?” Her voice cracks. “Explain what? That you’ve been lying to me this whole time? That you knew who I was and you said nothing?”
Before I can answer, a voice slithers to us from the door of the shop. “Well, this is a wonderful new development.”
I’d almost forgotten Kenji was here.
We both freeze, then turn to look at him.
He’s standing with one hand on the door, smirking like he’s just discovered the world’s greatest secret.
“It’s good to see you’ve finally found a woman again, Gio.” He says it like it’s a game. Like Stephanie’s a pawn he’s just learned is back in play. “Rumor around town was that you might die single.” With a dark chuckle, he steps back across the threshold and gently closes the shop door behind him.
It wasn’t just an observation.
It was a warning.
A promise.
I should go after him, chase him down and beat the smirk off his face.
Hell, I should kill him in broad daylight while I have the chance.
That cockroach is harder to kill than any of us realized, and the longer I let him live, the worse it will be for all of us.
But I don’t move an inch. Because right now, the storm in front of me is the only one that matters.
Stephanie’s still staring at the door, but her hands are shaking now.
When she turns back to me, her eyes are brimming with fury and pain. “Giovanni Chiaroscuro,” she says, voice bitter and sharp. “That’s your full name.”
Hearing her say it wrecks me. “Yes,” I whisper, heart slamming against my ribs. “Steph—”
“Don’t.” She lifts a hand and slaps mine away when I reach for her again. “Don’t touch me.”
It’s like being punched.
She steps back, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together. “How could you do this to me?”
“Please,” I say, desperate. “Let me explain—”
“Explain what?” Her voice rises. “That you pretended to be someone else? That you moved in right down the street from me, looked me in the eye every day—hell, you slept in my bed every night—without saying a word?”
I swallow hard, fresh guilt rising up to drown me, and I scratch at the back of my neck.
And in the potent silence, Stephanie seems to read between the lines. “Oh my God. Do you even live near me?” she practically shrieks, fury coloring her cheeks.
Dropping my eyes, I shake my head, and she releases a harsh laugh of disbelief.
“So, you went to the trouble of tracking me down—finally. And then what, you didn’t think I deserved to know who I am? Who you are?” Her voice breaks, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Why now? After all these years? Did you come back because you finally felt guilty for what your father did to me?”
The words hit me like a bullet—what my father did to her.
What my father did to her.
My throat closes.
I can barely get the question out. “Do you… remember now? What happened to you? Did he—” My voice cracks. “Did they touch you? Did they hurt you?”
Her expression shifts, closing off like the shutters of a window snapping shut as her jaw tightens. “Is that all you care about?”
I flinch. “No, I just—”
“You want to know if someone touched me? If they used me? If I’m damaged now?” Her voice is a whip, each word lashing deeper. “Is that what makes it real to you?”
“No—Stephanie—God, no—”
“Are you wondering if Jackson was the result of that?” she asks, voice trembling. “Is that why you were so interested in the timing of my pregnancy?”
I freeze.
The accusation slams into me like a freight train.
I think I might be sick.
I’ve thought about it before, but hearing her say it out loud—hearing that maybe, just maybe, the boy I’ve grown to love could’ve been born from that kind of pain—it guts me.
But it’s not what hurts the most.
What kills me is the fact that I couldn’t protect her.
That it was my family—my father—who stole her life.
And I let it happen.
“I don’t care what happened to you,” I manage, voice raw. “Not like that. Not in the way you mean.”
She scoffs, but I step forward.
“What happened to you… it could never change how I feel about you. It doesn’t make me love you any less. It just proves how miserably I failed you.”
Stephanie watches me with a guarded gaze, though her tears have started to subside. And in their place, I see a stone-cold disbelief that tells me just how little she trusts me now. “Then why didn’t you come for me?” she asks, her voice flat and painfully emotionless.
“I thought you were dead,” I breathe, the confession almost as bad as reliving that moment all over again.
“But it’s no excuse. I should have protected you.
I should have fought harder. And I swear to you, Stephanie, if I’d thought there was even a chance you were alive, I never would have stopped looking. ”
I drop my hands to my sides, trying to respect her desire for distance, even if it feels like every inch between us has carved a gaping chasm in my heart.
“I grieved for eight years,” I say. “I buried you in my heart. But I never moved on. I couldn’t.
You were the only woman I’ve ever loved.
You’re still the only woman I’ve ever loved. Without you, my life has no meaning.”
Her lips part slightly, and though her walls are still up, I can see cracks forming in their foundation.
“When I saw you again—coming home from the market—I followed you because I thought I was losing my mind. I was certain you were a ghost sent to haunt me.”
She turns away, arms tight around herself.
“I should’ve told you right away,” I say. “But then, you didn’t recognize me. And I didn’t know how to say, ‘Hey, I’m the guy who failed you eight years ago and now I’ve stalked you home because you’re supposed to be dead.’”
Silence.
I exhale shakily. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Is that why you lied?” she asks quietly, not turning around. “Said you were my neighbor? Pretended you didn’t know me?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes. “At first, I was hurt. You were alive, and you never told me. Then I was confused when you didn’t seem to recognize me. And by the time I realized you couldn’t tell me—that you didn’t know who you were—I knew it was already too late.”
She finally turns, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips trembling. “And still, you didn’t tell me,” she says softly. “Even then.”
I nod slowly. “Because I was afraid that if I did, I’d lose you.
That if I told you the truth, you’d pull away.
I’d failed you. Again. And how could you ever forgive me for keeping something like that from you?
I just… I was so damn happy to see you. To be with you, even if you didn’t remember me.
I didn’t want to ruin it. I wanted to keep you for as long as you would let me. ”
A long silence stretches between us. Her expression is unreadable.
Then, at last, she speaks. “These last few weeks,” she says slowly, “they’ve been the happiest I’ve felt in years.”
My heart skips a beat.
She shakes her head, her eyes shining. “I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what it was about you. But when I saw you that first day, it felt like coming home. Like peace.”
Tears well in my eyes. “You’re my home,” I whisper.
She looks at me, vulnerable now in a way that twists the knife deeper. “I couldn’t remember what you meant to me,” she says, “but I think my heart knew all along.”
God, I can’t take it anymore. I step forward. And this time, when I pull her into my arms… she lets me.
I bring my mouth crashing down on hers, pouring eight years of agony and love into a single kiss.
She gasps, her body tensing, and for a moment, I think she’s going to push me away again.
But then, slowly, her palms slide up my chest, her arms snaking around my neck, and her fingers curl in my hair like I’m not the only one drowning in the passion of this moment.
I’ve never had a kiss quite like this—like the very air we breathe is secondary to it.
Survival is optional as long as we have each other.
I hold her close, feeling the way our hearts race against my ribs in perfect sync with mine, and I can’t stop kissing her until my lungs are burning and black dots start to dance behind my eyelids.
When I finally do pull back, my voice is husky with emotion. “I missed you,” I whisper against her lips. “God, I’ve missed you so damn much, Stephanie. My world ended when I lost you. I died that day—and I only came back to life when I found you.”