Chapter 37 - Gio
GIO
The door closes behind Stephanie, and though it was gentle, it feels like she slammed it in my face.
She wouldn’t even let me take them home, and that is a louder statement than anything else she could have done.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stand there in the entryway, the scent of her lingering in the air like smoke after a gunshot, and I’m already dying for another hit of it.
Jackson’s goodbye still echoes in my ears, high and small and final.
She didn’t raise her voice.
She didn’t need to. Just a few quiet words, a hand on her son’s shoulder, and she was walking away from me for good.
At least that’s what she thinks.
No, I’m not going to be that guy. I’m not going to follow her or beg her or keep showing up at her door.
She’s made her choice, and I can’t blame her for it.
My family, my life… it’s nothing but bullets and blood.
And now that Kenji’s dead, she and Jackson will be safe.
I keep telling myself that. It should make letting them go easier, knowing that the last man who knew about me and her is rotting in the ground.
But it doesn’t.
Because I know I’ll never be the same without them.
My whole damn world revolves around Stephanie and her little boy. I’m crazy about them—willing to do anything to be a part of their lives, if only she would let me.
“Did Stephanie leave?” My brother Leo appears beside me, staring at the door in confusion while emotions roil inside me.
I don’t answer. Instead, I turn and head toward Miko’s study. “I need a drink.”
When I get to the wet bar, I uncork the whiskey and pour a generous amount into a lowball glass—then down the whole thing in one gulp before pouring another.
The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, but that pain is far more tolerable than the gaping chasm Stephanie left in my chest, and I’m eager for the numbness that inebriation will bring.
I hear the door swing open behind me, but I don’t turn. Instead, I down my second shot and pour a third.
“Help yourself,” Miko says dryly, and I raise my glass above my shoulder in silent salute.
“You want to tell us what happened?” Raf asks.
Oh, good. They’re all here.
I turn around to face my four brothers, and a sliver of relief wheedles its way into my core when I find Anika and Sora haven’t joined them.
As much as I love and respect my two sisters-in-law, I’m not sure I can take pity right now.
And my brothers tend to be far less sympathetic than their wives.
“She left. Told me not to contact her or Jackson again,” I rasp and throw back my third shot in as many minutes. “She thinks being associated with me will put them at risk—and I can’t say I blame her. I couldn’t even come up with a decent defense after what happened tonight.”
“But you got her out,” Sandro insists, stepping forward. “You protected them.”
I shake my head. “That’s the point. She never needed protection before I came around. And I can’t promise that I’ll be there to protect her every time. I failed her completely eight years ago—which is what created this whole mess to begin with.”
“Damn, Gio.” Leo’s lips press into a grim line. Then he steps up beside me and pulls four more lowball glasses off the bottom shelf of the wet bar.
Morning comes slow and ugly. My head feels like someone wedged a jackhammer behind my eyes.
The house is still, quiet.
It always is for days after a fight—like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it’s been nearly a week since we infiltrated the Tanaka estate, and no one’s come looking for us.
They’re too busy handling the chaos after losing their Oyabun, I’m sure.
Leo and Sora stuck around for a few days, hovering like they were afraid I would vanish if they blinked too long.
But they couldn’t stay indefinitely.
They have a new life away from all the loss and violence that seems to plague our family name—a new home and a baby on the way.
Miko has offered his support with his quiet brand of loyalty—sitting with me while I nurse my hangovers every morning.
He doesn’t ask questions, just drinks his coffee like tomorrow’s another day. I’m grateful for that.
Sandro keeps trying to drag me into sparring matches. I think he wants to beat the grief out of me. It hasn’t worked. Nothing does.
I spend hours on the balcony every day, staring down at the driveway, waiting for the two people who will never come.
At night, I find the bottle before I find my bed.
The whiskey still burns as it goes down, but not enough to cauterize the hole in my chest.
Raf’s the only one who’s managed to cut through the haze, even if just for a moment.
And as I roll over in bed, I think about our conversation out on the balcony last night, leaning on the railing—him with a glass of scotch, me with the rest of the bottle, since I’ve given up even trying to look presentable.
“At least you know she’s alive, Gio,” he said. “At least Stephanie and Jackson get to keep on living their lives.”
I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. My throat was tight, my hands shaking around the bottle’s neck.
“My wife will never have that,” he added, voice low and tormented.
“But at least Kenji’s truly dead this time.
The man responsible for what happened to her is gone.
That’s all the solace I’m going to get. But you have the privilege of knowing that the woman you love is still out there somewhere. Living happily with her son.”
His words did help a little, more than I want to admit. But the only real peace I can find is at the bottom of a bottle, and by the end of every night, I’m there.
It takes nearly an hour to convince myself to get out of bed.
I don’t bother shaving or even running a comb through my hair as I head down to the kitchen, hoping a bit of caffeine will ease the stabbing pain trapped behind my eyes.
I find Anika sitting at the breakfast room table when I come in with a mug of black coffee.
Everyone else seems to have already headed out for the day, Miko and the twins hell-bent on causing as much destruction for the Yakuza as they can while they’re vulnerable.
Anika gives me a soft smile as she lowers her mug of decaf to the table. I’m grateful when she pretends not to notice that I’m still wearing last night’s clothes.
Slumping into the chair several spaces down from her, I ignore the considerable spread that’s still sitting out—likely in case I’ve decided to switch back from my new form of liquid diet and eat something for the first time in days.
But I can’t.
Even the thought of food turns my nonexistent stomach.
“Rough night?” Anika ventures, her voice soft.
I give a humorless chuckle. “Just standard,” I say. “It’s the mornings after that suck.”
She falls silent again, her fingers playing with the handle of her mug.
She doesn’t know what to say to me next. But that’s alright. No one does anymore.
What do you say to a person who doesn’t want to be here anymore? Who almost had everything they’ve ever wanted—and they screwed it up so badly that in a single breath, it all disappeared?
I’m about to take another sip from my mug when the doorbell rings.
Anika frowns, glancing toward the breakfast room door nearest the entryway. “Expecting anyone?”
“No,” I rasp, my voice rough like gravel.
I push my chair back and head for the door, more out of habit than curiosity. I’ve learned the hard way that not answering can be worse.
With a deep frown, I pull it open—and freeze.
Jackson stands at the threshold dressed in his little sneakers and a Superman T-shirt that’s a size too big.
His hair is sticking up in a dozen directions, confirming my suspicion that Stephanie didn’t knowingly let him out of the house. “Hey,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and a brilliant smile splits his face.
My brain short-circuits. “Jackson?”
He nods, smiling like he hasn’t just cracked my whole world open again.
I drop to a knee without thinking, my hands on his shoulders before I’ve even decided to touch him. “What are you—where’s your mom? How did you even get here?”
“She’s… she’s at home,” he says carefully, like he’s not sure if he’s in trouble. “But I wanted to see you, so I took the train myself.” A hint of pride eeks into his tone.
Something in my chest twists so hard it’s almost painful. My vision blurs—not from the hangover or from lack of sleep. “And what, you walked the rest of the way?”
Jackson nods.
The nearest station is over a mile away, and the fact that he’s here at all must mean he memorized the way Stephanie took him home the other night—and he managed to retrace the steps all by himself.
This kid is too smart for his own good. And God, but I’ve missed him.
I can’t stop myself from pulling him into my arms, holding him so tight I’m afraid I’ll crush him.
But he’s warm and solid and real, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe as he wraps his tiny arms around my neck and hugs me back.