It could certainly be said that everything is falling apart.

Our circumstances are, to say the least, grounds for concern. Tommaso's impending trial, the war with the Russians, my reputation shot to hell. The 'Prince of Chicago' title begins to sound quite silly when its holder has suffered rapid mental decline, endured a brief stint in a mental hospital, and made a casual return before promptly (insanely) declaring war on Kirill Sokolov.

I am everything I always hated and swore to never be. Catapulted into the media due to a highly publicized and equally theatrical court case, vulnerable to near strangers with no personal payoff in sight... that picture perfect exterior has become anything but.

Everything I've ever built, ever worked for—shattering.

But my brothers and I seem to be verging on a new place. Not quite there yet. There are regrets and words unsaid. Grief that is dormant one moment and wildly destructive the next; that snarls in its cage and begs to be let out at the most unpredictable, inopportune moments so it can tear me to shreds. When I look at my brothers, I'm reminded of what I've lost. But the difference is just that—I look at them. I don't pull back. I can't anymore.

That being said, the one thing currently holding me together is the ring Vivienne wears on her finger.

She's always staring at it like she can't bear to look away. When caressed by the light, the gem's inner radiance is almost blinding. Bright, glimmering, screaming 'look at me.' An imitation of the woman who wears it and her own effulgence that blinds everyone lucky enough to see it. It's the only ring that would have suited her.

Others, when they see it, may assume it was chosen so I could lay some sort of claim over Vivienne, so that it would be the first thing people notice about her. But that couldn't be further from the truth. Anything I give her should serve to complement who she already is. 

Every time I catch her staring at it, I'm reminded to take a breath.

I'm also reminded that if she hadn't been able to agree with my proposal, I have no earthly idea what I would have done. But it's still some sort of reprieve, because everything else is a breathless, chaotic mess.

I'd expect as much after burning down every one of Kirill Sokolov's strongholds and warehouses in my city, killing dozens of his men and breaking our code of silence. I fully exposed the criminal underbelly of this city to its oblivious citizens.

But my anger demanded I do so. It was primal. Started in the center of my chest and spread to my lungs, an aching heat crawling through the rest of me until it infiltrated the deepest recesses of my soul. Anger was never something I could access to fuel my actions. But Vivienne being taken flipped a switch.

Fire and smoke, flashing lights and sirens, civilians clearing the streets... the city itself seemed to tremble. But still, I felt calm and in control. I knew there was no reality that could exist where I did not find her.

It began in a black car with tinted windows rolling slowly down a street Sokolov's enforcers notoriously populated. One moment, silence; the next, rapid gunfire littering the houses and shattering the windows.

From there, Sokolov had minutes before the rest of his empire came tumbling down.

It was seemingly out of the blue. The most impulsive, catastrophic thing I have ever done. And although my fury was misdirected since he wasn't the one who took her, it did ultimately help me find her. As I tore down a local business used as a distribution point for Sokolov's product (which he did implement without my permission), I came across CCTV footage of Vivienne being shoved into an unmarked car.

So while it can be said that everything is falling apart, I consider my actions completely justified and well worth it.

She's home, safe. Once those bruises fade, I might finally stop losing my mind at every little thing she does. But until then...

"I do think firing our entire security detail was overkill," Santo grumbles as we get off a call with an associate who's working on setting up a meeting with Sokolov. The Pakhan is angry. I'll be lucky if he agrees to a call before at least attempting to kill me. "She waited until the moment our guards were switching posts to slip away. It was perfectly timed."

I tense, glaring at Santo. How dare he insinuate she is even remotely at fault.

She is, but I am the only one allowed to say so.

Before he can dig himself deeper into that hole, my phone buzzes. And as soon as I see her name my attention is fully diverted.

Vivienne: Hi loony! How's the meeting? I was just going downstairs when I tripped and fell and hit my head on the railing. Do you think we need to go to the hospital? There's blood everywhere

I shoot to my feet, my heart a frozen block in the center of my chest. My chair goes toppling to the floor and it's pure muscle memory that keeps my phone from doing the same, seeing as every single one of my limbs has turned to jelly.

Vivienne: Just kidding!!!!!! Can you come make me a sandwich

I brace my hands on the desk for a moment, then set my jaw and stride for the door. The look on my brother's face tells me he is thoroughly entertained by this new... emotionally susceptible side of me.

I find her mid conversation with Nina. Pillow Princess is curled up in her lap, eyes slit in contentment as Vivienne scratches her face. The rest of the litter are probably somewhere nearby; Pillow Princess immediately took to Vivienne and hardly lets anyone else touch her, while the others have been staging a hostile takeover of the entire estate. We keep finding them in the most random places. If it were up to Tommaso, he'd have them dumped on the side of the road. The smallest one has surreptitiously claimed his bedroom, which is where we've limited all his intimate relations with the women on my payroll. (A whole separate issue—I have always loathed the whores having access to our house, but somehow I loathe a Tommaso who is not having sex even more).

Vivienne is still thinking of names for the others, but she's decided on Fuck for the little one, because that's what Tommaso shouts every time it drops onto his back from somewhere unseen as soon as he starts having sex.

Vivienne has also been unnecessarily worried that Nik will feel replaced, but he's spent all his time with me in my office. He seems equally exhausted by all the activity and clamor caused by cat and human alike.

I come up behind her, leaning down and gathering her hair in my fist. Gently, I pull her head back so those smiling eyes meet mine.

"Hungry, dolcezza?"

She nods innocently and I stare at her for a moment, briefly tightening my fist as I kiss her forehead before leaving to honor her request.

"Thank you!" she calls brightly, and the girls are laughing about something before I've left the room.

Despite her still healing body, she is glowing. It's happiness, I eventually realized, and the way Vivienne wears it is unparalleled. Like sunshine—she lights up every room with it, and it warms my skin whenever she touches me.

When she found out about the cats—sad backstories, disfigurements, and all—she hid her face in my chest for a long time before she could even look at me. When she did, it was with a soft kind of gratefulness, a luminous contentment that I immediately vowed to keep on her face as long as I live.

I have a feeling, however, that this next gesture may receive more pushback from her—so I wait until that evening, when the duties of the day are behind us and her eyes are a little glazed over.

Then I spring it on her.

"I got you something."

She pauses in brushing her hair, finding it necessary to look a little alarmed. I, for my part, get briefly lost in how she looks right before bed—soft lips, clear skin, hair a silken mess—so I forget the words I'd planned on and just silently hand her the folded piece of paper.

She opens it slowly enough to make my hands itch, and her eyes race across the text. When she looks at me again, it's with horror. Great. Here we go.

"Massimo," she whispers, "what is this?"

"What does it say?"

"It says," her voice wavers and she clears her throat, "it's a deed to a building close by. In my name."

"I bought several more—I wasn't sure where you'd like to settle." I probably should have established that with her first, now that I think about it. Oh well. "Rhinebeck, of course. New York City, in case you want to be close to your family." Although I sincerely hope not. "And, well, there are a few more. I found some small to midsize towns with personality you might enjoy. All are in a strategic location, and I've already vetted them to predict the success of your business model—"

"You did not do this," she blinks, examining me with a tremulous sheen to her eyes. 

Except I did.

It feels like a lifetime ago, when we were both different people. When Vivienne ran away to her parents' house, and I waited a week until going after her. I ate her out under her father's roof, started a fight, and dragged her disobedient ass back to Rhinebeck. On the way out, as I was grabbing her things, I found a large stack of papers on her desk. I skimmed over them—they seemed important—and took them with me.

She spent the drive home seething, and I spent it reading those papers.

They were business plans—thorough, meticulously researched, more calculated than half the proposals I receive from seasoned executives pitching their multi-million-dollar ideas. Vivienne had done most of the work, all she needed was a building. And workers. And—well, I wouldn't get carried away with it.

I don't know why she didn't tell me, or why she had such a strong reaction to me finding out about it. But I could tell that she didn't want it to be anyone else's.

She was furious when she found out—betrayed, it seemed—and I'll admit it took me by surprise. They were just business plans for what seemed to be a cafe combined with some sort of animal rescue. But she avoided me for days afterwards while I persistently had food delivered to her door. And we probably would have talked about it, had I not blacked out and called Cora. And had Vivienne not, the very next day, brought home Bryan. The boring, ugly dentist.

As was typical with us, things couldn't stop falling apart long enough for us to deal with our more normal issues. So I figured I'd initiate that now.

"I have a selection of staff for you. I've done the initial vetting but it will be up to you to make final decisions. Everyone you'll need, I have on call. Architects, designers, contractors, space planners, lighting specialists, brand consultants..." her eyes are beginning to glaze over so I skip to the end, "and event coordinators, as you'll want to throw some sort of launch party."

She stares at me with absolutely no expression.

I sigh, wondering why she is so abysmally terrible at accepting gifts and gestures. I'll have to keep getting her things until she gets over that.

She doesn't react when I step into her space, gently removing the paper from her fisted hand and tipping her chin up to assess her more closely.

"What I've ensured, and the point of this gift, is that everything is in your control." I spread my fingers over her neck, feeling her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath her warm skin. "All decisions are yours to make, and I am here if needed. Everything is above ground, including all my contacts."

I'd made sure of that, first and foremost. If everything I had were to burn to the ground tomorrow, Vivienne's business would escape all suspicion. Every part of it will operate legally, transparently, and open to the public.

I won't tell her now—but the whole thing has become a sort of passion project for me and I am fully invested in its success. I had forgotten what I truly enjoy doing, what I've always been good at—running businesses. I had to consciously resist getting too involved, even looped in Santo to check me if (and when) that happened anyway.

"You bought me a building so I could start a business," Vivienne says slowly. "And... and you bought several more buildings? All in different cities?"

I nod, tracing her jaw. "I wanted you to have the choice. Accept it."

Her mouth gapes a little. "You've somehow made this already extra gesture even more extra."

As far as I'm concerned, that's a high compliment.

Suddenly, she's throwing herself into my chest. My breath catches—it always does, still, and probably will forever. Also something I haven't told her, but anytime she touches me, even in the most innocent of ways, my body reacts in a visceral way.

"This must mean you're accepting it," I say in somewhat of a hoarse voice, feeling her chest swell against mine with heavy breaths.

"You're so good to me that I don't know what to do sometimes," she says quietly. Her hair, static from brushing it, clings to my chin.

"What I say would be nice," I suggest.

She pulls back, eyes bright and open. Words finally becoming dislodged.

"Massimo, this means more to me than you even know."

"Tell me," I say, wanting all the emotions swirling in her face to materialize into something I can understand.

"I—did you know I never even applied to college? My parents got me into, like, ten of the very best schools. I didn't have to lift a finger. I chose a random one and dicked around for four years. It didn't feel like my choice, or my life. Everything I did felt drained of... significance."

"How did your parents react?"

"They hated it. They hated it even more when I chose not to do grad school. My mom didn't talk to me for four and a half months after I moved out here." She swallows back a twinge of hurt, and my jaw clenches. "To be fair, I did tell her the morning I packed all my shit and left."

"Doesn't excuse the way she treats you."

She gives a sad smile and shrug, agreeing. "I started drawing up those plans when I was sixteen. I spent so much time on it—I'd refuse to go out with my friends and instead research and spend all my money on classes. My parents would never pay for the degree I wanted, so I just did what I could in secret. I wanted something that would be mine. I wanted..."

"Tell me what you wanted," I encourage when she seems to reach a block, gently threading my fingers through her hair. I can already guess, but want to hear it from her lips.

"After I found out I couldn't have kids, I got really tired of thinking about it and trying to decide if I would have wanted them anyway. My mom was an emotional mess and everyone was acting like my life was over." She sighs, and her carefully curated sadness tells me she's mentally going back to that time. "Sixteen year old me decided the one thing I knew for sure I wanted was a cat. I also liked the idea of owning something, being in charge of a business so I could professionally tell people what to do. I knew I could be good at it."

I think back to where she used to work, that bar that masked its sleaziness in gold and silk, where she was mistreated and her skills were grossly underutilized by that sorry excuse of a manager.

"I wanted it to be like those cafes, you know the ones with all the cats roaming around. But mine would have the ugly ones nobody wants," she rolls her eyes with a small smile. "Which is dumb because nobody would come to that, but..." she bites her lip, eyes clouding over, "I know people would give them homes too, if they got to know them. Anyway, it felt like a total waste of time so even though I brought the plans with me when I moved out, I ignored them."

"Why did you hate that I saw them?"

"Because I'd never told anyone about them. And you snooped," she narrows her eyes.

I have no reply, since bringing up the times Vivienne snooped is absolutely pointless. I couldn't care less. The more she pushed herself into my life, the happier I was to let her.

"And why else did you hate it?" I push.

"Because," she bursts out, a little agitated, "I've never really been able to talk about this kind of thing with my family. Any time I tried to discuss my confusion and dissatisfaction with my life, it just turned into an argument. Even the good things, like the things I did want... everyone saw those as problems to be fixed. So eventually I shut the fuck up about all of it."

I frown, hating the sound of that.

Something I've come to learn—if Vivienne is ever quiet about something, that's a very bad sign. I'm not sure she realizes, but she's even terrible at the silent treatment. When she's upset, everyone knows.

"But you can talk about it with me." You will, is of course what I mean. "I miss you when you don't talk to me."

She melts a little against my hands. "You think I can do it? You don't think it's stupid?"

"Of course you can do it. And of course it's not stupid." Although glaringly obvious, it clearly still needs saying. "You are a force, Vivienne Lee."

"I want to modify my plans a little," she says suddenly, "because I also want to help kids who are being targeted by the same kinds of people who targeted you. Money can't solve everything, but it's exactly what those kids need. If they're not so physically vulnerable, if they have a place to go and people to help them, they won't be targeted. I've been... doing some research, actually. Looking into how feasible that would be."

It's my turn to be speechless. I never thought of it that way. I always assumed that in order to make a difference, we'd have to find a way to tear apart that particular bulwark of society—such an impossible task that I stopped believing there was any way to help. 

But why not focus on the victims? Why not help them before someone else hurts them?

Unsure what to say, or how, I just kiss her. She sighs, a happy little sound against my cheek, and I bury my face in her hair.

"Thank you, Massimo," she whispers. "But we're starting to have a problem."

I pull back, not liking the sound of that.

But she's smiling. "You've given me everything I could ever want. Now nothing else to dream about."

This time when I kiss her, it burns hot with the only promise a man like me could make that would deem him worthy of a woman like her.

And for some reason, something begs for release at the tip of my tongue. Something that feels pathetic and small. Her lips are swollen, rose colored, addictive. Eyes like a lighthouse. My throat almost feels like it's closing, strangely, because of nothing.

There's just the sudden knowledge that I'm not sure I have ever been around someone who understands love. For some reason, that's almost more difficult to contend with than all the abuse I experienced. To have never been in the vicinity of a person who wasn't twisted up and vile—it's truly telling of the kind of person I was too. Everyone who abused me was abused. It brings into question the kind of person I was going to become. Not that it would have been my fault, but at that point it wouldn't have mattered. It would've been me. And that person is someone who doesn't even deserve to be seen as human.

"Love isn't a feeling. For me. It doesn't... make me feel butterflies or jittery nerves." Both things I have heard Nina and Leah discuss, that sound so foreign to me. "It's more an orientation of my heart. Like everything within me is tilted towards you."

There's no other way to describe it than reality. There's no part of me that isn't hers.

Her eyes are shimmering and a smile is almost bursting off her face. I, on the other hand, feel like burning off my own skin. Hating every word I've said for the way it feels inadequate. And like surgery to reveal myself to her.

"You never have to explain yourself to me," she says gently. "I love the way you love me."

Now I'm feeling like I simultaneously want to kiss her and eject myself from this room. Instead I resort to an awkward, somewhat cold response of, "well, just wanted to keep you informed."

She seems to find something funny. "Thanks for letting me know. Same time tomorrow? Should I set up a meeting with your secretary?"

Realizing she's making fun of me, I give her hip a punishing squeeze. Her laughter follows me as I slip into the bathroom, both to prepare for bed and return to myself.

But I do it with a great unloosening of my chest and a thickness in my throat.

Because that right there is a microcosm of my entire life. A brief moment of fear and discomfort, of feeling other, being forced to recognize something dark within me... and then there's Vivienne. Pulling me out of it.

There's always Vivienne.

♛

Sleep evades me. It often does, but it's different this time. I don't feel heavy or weighed down, uncomfortable, like there's an itch deep inside my organs I can't reach.

Eventually, with a frustrated huff, I'm forced to leave the bedroom before I disrupt Vivienne. She's sleeping so peacefully, nestled in the sheets with her silk shirt lifting and her shorts riding up to reveal tantalizing skin.

Which is exactly my problem.

I am unable to sleep when my body has apparently decided it wants... no, needs Vivienne right this second. The thought does cross my mind to wake her, but something stops me. She's been through a lot, emotionally and physically. The bruises have yet to fade from her skin.

It's those circumstances which find me padding softly through the quiet house, marveling at the still novel sensation of wanting someone and... well, having it stop there. I want her, and it's not wrong or disgusting, it's only that I want her.

I reach for a gun I don't have on me when I notice a dark shadow sitting in the corner of the kitchen.

Once I flip on a light, I realize it's Santo. Shirtless and visibly exhausted, sipping on a glass of whiskey with a dark look in his eyes.

Well, this should be good.

Of course, I've noticed him being weighed down by something for a while and have been patiently waiting for him to come to me about it.

"I have a problem," he eventually says. Gruff, with some difficulty.

I frown, an odd feeling in my chest. "Nina?"

"The fuck? No," he frowns, placing his glass back on the table with a sharp clank. "It's Tommaso."

"Ah." When is it not. "Is this a... new development?"

"Dumbass," he mutters, but there's no vitriol behind the word. Either way, he's the only one who can call me that and keep his head. "The constant drugs and sex are fucking getting to me, now that it's all being done under this roof. I need it to stop. And I know with these recent details about his case coming out..." Tommaso being drugged, he means, but clearly doesn't want to explicitly say, "I know the trial will probably go in our favor, but if it doesn't, he won't do well in prison. You know that."

I nod, unable to deny the possibility.

"Issue is, he's not gonna do well anywhere. And it's fucking killing me, Simo."

His eyes, inky in the dark of night, burn into mine with a desperation the two of us have always shared as the ones in charge of this family. Only recently have I been able to translate mine into something that doesn't feel like knives against my throat.

"I see that."

"I trust you," he says unexpectedly, "with everything. Even this shitshow with the Russians. It's never been a choice or a challenge to fucking trust you. You know that, right?"

His words take root in my chest, forcing me to clear my throat. "I know that."

"And," he carries on, looking angrily earnest, "I'm sorry for the way I handled things—after you opened up to us about Cora and everything that happened." His voice becomes thick, hands trembling, even after he clenches them and crosses his arms. "It's just that... thinking about it makes me so fucking furious that I actually worry for the safety of anyone who gets in my way. But," he visibly tries to calm himself, "I don't think I told you what I should have. That you're still my brother and nothing will change that. Forgive me."

I let his words sink in. It feels like an unexpected balm, makes my heart thump thickly.

"I forgive you. And I'm sorry too. You apologize for being unable to handle my suffering, but I always refused to let you." I breathe out a calming breath, meeting his eyes wide with disbelief. "That hardly makes any sense."

He blinks. "Fuck that. I'm not forgiving you. You telling us everything that happened was you asking for help. I knew you needed me. I haven't ever been what you needed, Simo. Not from the beginning."

"You've always been everything I needed," I frown. "There were many times growing up that I would have given up completely. I wanted to die and I didn't care about what you or anyone else would think. But you were always there, angry and fighting. You always fought so very hard." I hated him for it. And then I loved how I hated him. It was the only way I survived. "You fought so long. You fought even when you were the only one fighting. You kept me going."

You still do.

We both stare at each other for a few moments before I break.

"That is probably the most honest I've been with you. Don't come to expect that every day."

He nods, looking equal parts dazed, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and relieved. Eager to change the subject. "You're happy? With her?"

As I settle into what will now be my new life, the ending I never saw coming for myself, I've been wondering how one even begins to qualify happiness. Trying to recognize those uncontainable bursts of positive feeling in myself. But I've realized it isn't a matter of happiness. For me, it's a backwards sort of thing—more telling to look at the sorrow.

The world is no longer filled up with emptiness. Darkness cannot exist without light, or evil without good. What I once considered emotional, optimistic fluff is perhaps the most rational observation of all. I will only ever know pain because I once knew happiness—no matter how short-lived it was. Perhaps it was just one sun-soaked, peaceful afternoon in my childhood with my brothers by my side. Perhaps it was a dinner at Adamo and Sasha's table, or one conversation with my father where I thought I might want to be like him.

Whatever it was, it happened. And it's shown me that the things that matter are beyond comprehension. Mysterious, ambiguous, they have no story. Glint of brightness in a gold chain resting on her chest. Press of her nails as she kisses me, glimmer of a smile across the room. The touch of a tattooed fist to my heart, raucous laughter, arguing voices seeping through the walls. These things make me regret deciding to pull back from the world.

It's more than happiness. A glittering edge where something worthwhile comes into existence. Sharp and cutting. Like a deep inhalation of icy air that makes your eyes water and your chest seize, and for a second you regret that you breathed. Desolation smoothed out into a soft, sweet sorrow. The haunted memory of lost love, lost life, lost innocence. And the invitation, swirling out of a dark and troubled sea, to recognize: you are damaged, and therefore capable of doing great damage. 

For me, it stops there. No matter what Vivienne decides about children, or the storms I'll carry my brothers through in the future, the decision to not inflict what was inflicted on me. Not any longer. 

Life is catastrophe, and better having never been born than forced to die in this cesspool. But as cruelly as the game plays out, as quaint as it feels attempting to "make meaning" of things, it seems possible to play it with a kind of ease. A kind of joy.

My mind gets lost in the grey. Spaces decked out in full color to everyone else. But these spaces viewed close, under a microscope, are vibrant: an elegant hand wearing a striking diamond, full lips pulling back in a girlish smile, books stacked up on my desk, terribly tasting desserts nestled in a damp napkin. Step away and the big picture falls back into place: she's somewhere in my world and she loves me. Sorrow inseparable from joy. Something sublime.

"You have no idea how to answer that, huh?" Santo says dryly. 

I give him a look. He shakes his head, suddenly becoming serious. "Well, if you were to ask me, I'd say I feel like I'm getting my brother back. Or... I'm not sure I ever had you, which is a lot sadder. But you feel alive to me." He shrugs. "If you needed help finding your answer."

My brother gives me no time to react to his words, although that's probably for the better. He drains the rest of his drink with a scowl. "Now what are we supposed to do about our fucking brother?"

I push back from the table, ready to go back to Vivienne. "I have an idea." 

♛ 

That's all from Massimo, minus a tiiiiny surprise in the next one. Which should be short (lol... but seriously) and then we have the epilogue!

- G