Chapter Fifty
Stefano
FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER
“HOW LONG ARE YOU gonna sit there staring at the board before you accept that you’re done? Kaput. I’ve got you.”
Deeply focused on the chess board between us, Pavlov mutters, “Hush.”
Beating back a chuckle, I take a sip of java. In an unexpected twist, Pavlov and I have become chess buddies.
About a month after I got back from Switzerland and was drowning in misery and regret, he showed up at my house demanding a game. I told him to fuck off. Hurled threats and insults. But he didn’t budge. Refused to leave until we played.
So I gave in. Beat his ass. Told him not to show up here again until our deal was done. But it didn’t matter. He kept dropping in at random times, always demanding a rematch. It’s been nearly eighteen months and he hasn’t beaten me once, but keeps showing up to get his ass handed to him.
I get it, though. I was the same with Vale. Couldn’t beat him to save my life, but I was addicted to trying. Only losers quit because they fail.
Somewhere along the way, Pavlov and I developed an odd kind of relationship. Not quite friends, not enemies either. We talk about things with our walls up, ever guarded.
But we never, ever talk about her.
JB checks in on me no more or less than usual. Our dynamic hasn’t changed. I antagonize, she threatens. Business as usual.
Except for that one time, over a year ago, when she video-called me with her daughter, Mirabella. I held it together when she told me she was Mamma’s namesake, and why. But hours later, in the dead of the night, I broke under the shower, where no one could witness it.
The murderous rage I had toward her…it’s lost its edge since then. Almost disappointing, honestly. Because I had some truly inspired scenarios for how I’d kill her if we ever ended up in the same room again.
Coming back to Vegas, I was brimmed with rage. Boiling. Rage I’d been choking down the entire time at ThreeFours, for Soraya’s sake. After hearing what she went through, what she survived, the fury didn’t just simmer inside me, it churned, wild and unforgiving.
I promised myself that if I ever got close to Jhay Byrd again, I’d kill her with my bare hands, even if it meant going down with her. Every shred of respect I had for that woman was gone. Obliterated.
But no matter how much I burned, I knew what Soraya needed from me wasn’t fire, it was peace. Calm. Something steady to hold on to.
When I made that deal with JB, I had no intention of keeping it.
I said whatever I had to just to get to Soraya.
But after hearing her story, everything shifted.
I realized if I wanted to be there for her the way she deserved, to protect and shield her, I had to get in.
Deeper inside their world. And to do that, I needed patience.
Strategy. Play the long game. Honor the deal. Earn their trust.
As hard as it was, I bridled the rage and zeroed in on what mattered most then—my woman.
Loving her right, making her smile, giving her a glimpse of what I intend to do for the rest of my life.
Commit myself to her happiness. Wrap her in so much love and laughter until the past stops weighing her down.
So that with me, she only knows one thing…
Love.
Real, unconditional love, so damn loud it drowns out every shit memory.
Am I conflicted about JB now? Yeah. But not enough to derail the plan.
“Damn, I miss Vale,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee. “Would bring the fucker back to life just to get a decent game of chess.”
“Or you could just go join him in hell,” Pavlov fires back.
A muffled commotion stirs outside the hall.
“Motherfucker, I live here! What do you mean I can’t—” Thud.
Pavlov barely glances up. “Sounds like you’re needed.”
An inadvertent smile tugs at me as I scoot back my chair and stand. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit defeat.”
I cross the drawing room and open the door to find a pissed-off Gio pinned to the wall by one of Pavlov’s oversized goons.
“Ivan, ease up off my uncle.”
Ivan grunts, lets Gio go, and returns to his post by the door.
“Come on,” I say, waving Gio along.
“I fucking hate it when that man shows up,” Gio grouses, straightening his jacket. “His goddamn Goliaths just take over the goddamn place, telling us what we can and can’t do. Why the hell do I need to be frisked in my own damn house?”
Yeah, Pavlov’s a lot to deal with. When he shows up, it’s not just him, it’s his whole damn entourage. And their utmost priority is his safety. Never mind the fact that he’s the one crashing our turf, we’re still subjected to a thorough “security check” routine before he settles in.
An annoying inconvenience? Sure. But in the grand scheme of things? Not that big of a deal.
We head down the hall toward the living room.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.
Gio brushes off his sleeve, still irritated. “That place in Kyle Canyon. I’m getting nothing on it.” He drops onto the arm of the couch with a scowl. “And believe me, I’ve dug deep and climbed high. But the kickback remains the same. ‘Private government project.’”
“What kind of goddamn ‘government project’? What, they’re housing aliens or something?”
“Don’t know, man.” Gio shrugs. “Why not ask your godlike buddy down the hall? Isn’t he supposed to be ‘all-knowing’ or whatnot?”
“I’ve tried.”
“And?”
“He said he’s not my genie.”
Gio snorts. “He sounds like a dick.”
“He is.”
About fourteen months ago, I got word of a new residential development in Kyle Canyon, a massive spread across fifteen acres. Seemed normal at first. Construction started, no red flags.
Then thirty-foot walls shot up around the entire site.
By the twelve-month mark, the whole thing was done. Sealed up tight.
In that time, I had three different construction workers—all out-of-towners—picked up and squeezed for information. But no amount of beatings, threats, or pressure could get them to talk.
Next, I sent in drones for overhead visuals. But every single one malfunctioned within a hundred feet of the property and plummeted out of the sky.
So yeah, “private government project” tracks.
But here’s a hard fact: nothing, and I mean nothing—legal, illegal, black channels, government shadows, underground networks—ever gets past me in this city. At least, not for long.
Until now.
Something’s slipped past me, and that blank space is what’s got me on edge.
“I know it’s been bugging you,” Gio says, “but if it’s government property, what’s there to worry about?”
“How can we call this city ours if we don’t know what’s going on in it?” I press. “You’re fine not knowing if it’s terrorists laying bombs underground, waiting to level us to the damn ground?”
Gio guffaws like I’m being absurd. “You’re always so damn dramatic. And paranoid. You should write a book.”
Cora walks in and offers us fruit cups.
“Your spirit is better these days,” she says, forcing a slice of mango into my mouth. “Much happier. Less mopey-dopey jilted-lover. I like when the handsome rude man visits for chess. Your mood is always better.”
As Cora walks out, Gio smirks and arches a brow at me.
“I haven’t been ‘mopey-dopey,’” I grit out.
The fucker just keeps smirking.
I throw a piece of fruit at him. “Shut your ugly ass up.”
He throws his head back, laughing. “I haven’t said anything!”
“Have Sanders round up a team for tonight,” I tell him. “Think it’s time we welcomed our new friends to the city.”
~
OKAY, I’LL ADMIT, I have been a mopey, jilted lover.
But not all the time.
Maybe for a bit, after the one-year agreement was up.
The moment it ended, I didn’t wait a single day to reach out to Soraya. But got disconnected lines and bounced messages instead.
Which led to me getting on a plane to Switzerland as fast as possible. Problem was, once I landed, I had no damn clue how to find ThreeFours.
So I went to Zytglogge. Every day. For two weeks straight. Stood under that damn clock tower and waited.
She never showed.
When I reached out to JB and Pavlov, they both insisted on staying out of “our affairs.” Funny that, considering the separation was entirely their doing.
I stuck it out in Switzerland for a full month before finally dragging my pathetic ass home. Reluctantly. Dejectedly.
The weeks that followed were rough. I swung between being depressingly morose to irrational fury. No one wanted to be around me. Can’t blame them. I didn’t want to be around me either.
But eventually, I snapped out of it. I know Soraya. I know how she feels about me. Wherever she was, she was watching. And she didn’t fall for the glum, self-pitying version of me.
She fell for me. The real me.
All that painful dejection that was growing like a goddamn tumor on my heart? I ruthlessly excised the fuck out of it and burned it to ashes with the flames of the white-hot rage I’d been suppressing.
And then I went back to being the magnificent fucking creature I am.
Let her miss me. Let her watch from whatever hidden place she’s tucked herself into and feel it.
I’m Stefano fucking Castello. And my name comes with a reputation. Savage. Cruel. Business savvy. Egotistical. Deplorable. Narcissistic. If it’s bad, my name’s right there, bold and underlined. And I wear it like a crown.
But of all the things I am, I’m hers.
If I was created for any reason at all, it’s to love her. I feel it in my bones, in my blood, in the deepest part of my wretched black soul.
Sure, there are off days. Days I wake up craving her so badly it feels like a fist to the chest. A hollow ache that doesn’t quit. Hits like a hammer, unexpectedly and off guard.
On those days, I mope and stay in. Or I take it out on anyone unlucky enough to be near me. But those off days are rare now. Few and far between.
For the most part, I’m back. Fully locked in. Nurturing the empire, building partnerships, strengthening alliances.
All while keeping my eyes sharp. Always searching…for a clue, a sign, a silent message from her. Anything.