What We Left in the Dark

Twenty Seven

I stared at the phone in disbelief, my pulse racing as I stood there on the sidewalk, the weight of what had just happened sinking in. He didn't know where I was—he couldn't possibly know.

Could he?

The cold air hit me again, the reality of the situation creeping back in as I gripped the phone in my hand, my body buzzing with uncertainty and the lingering effects of the alcohol. I wasn't sure what to do next. Should I leave? Should I run?

But the truth was, a part of me wanted to stay. A part of me wanted to see if Giancarlo really would show up, if he would actually find me in the middle of New York City without knowing my exact location.

I stood frozen on the sidewalk, waiting for whatever was about to happen next, my mind racing, my heart pounding, and my body betraying the fear—and excitement—flooding through me.

Exactly ten minutes later, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, and my breath hitched. Giancarlo, for the first time in years, was driving himself. The driver's door flew open with a hastiness that matched his intense energy, and before I could fully process the scene unfolding in front of me, he was storming toward me with a look that could shatter glass.

Without a word, he grabbed my face, his rough hands framing my jaw as his eyes scanned me for what felt like an eternity. His deep brown eyes searched mine, lingering as if he were looking for something—reassurance, guilt, anger—I didn't know what.

"Get in the car," he said, his voice low, deep, and shaking me to my core.

I shook my head, mustering whatever strength I had left. "I don't need you to babysit me, Giancarlo. I'm grown."

His eyes darkened at my response, and before I could react, he picked me up, tossing me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing. His grip was firm, possessive, and I didn't protest. Instead, I allowed myself to go limp in his arms, the fight leaving me as the world spun with the alcohol and adrenaline.

The car door slammed behind me as he put me in the passenger seat, and then we were moving, but not toward the tunnel. Instead of taking me back to Jersey, Giancarlo drove up River Drive, weaving through traffic until we reached the Upper West Side. He didn't say a word as he navigated through the quiet streets, the tension between us palpable, filling the car with unspoken words and lingering emotions.

We finally pulled into an underground garage, and my pulse quickened as he parked the car. His hand gripped the steering wheel tightly for a moment, as if he were steadying himself, before he stepped out and opened my door. I followed him up to the penthouse, unsure of what to expect next.

His apartment was nothing like I remembered. The moment I stepped inside, I was hit with the overwhelming sense of calm that seemed to radiate from every corner of the space. Deep colors and rich, dark wood dominated the decor. The living room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, giving it the air of a private library. The room felt like a sanctuary, a place where time slowed down, and all the chaos of the world faded away.

I immediately felt like I was sinking into its peace. The plants scattered throughout the space drew my attention. Lush greenery intertwined with the rich decor, making the room feel alive and warm in a way I hadn't expected from Giancarlo. I lingered near one of the larger plants, running my fingers over the soft leaves, losing myself in the tranquility.

But the heat of his gaze pulled me back. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck, watching me, waiting for my next move. I craned my neck slightly to meet his gaze, and he slowly crossed the room, handing me a glass of water.

"Drink," he said, his voice emotionless—less of a request and more of a command.

I sipped it quietly, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to feel. His eyes stayed locked on mine, compelling me to drink more. I finished the glass in a daze, and he approached me again, taking it from my grasp.

"Good girl," he murmured, almost under his breath, before walking away and placing the glass on a nearby side table. He peeled off his t-shirt, tossing it toward me.

I didn't accept it immediately, still processing the intensity of the moment. He glanced at me, his eyes flickering up and down my body.

"You're wearing half a suit and heels," he pointed out, matter-of-factly. "I'm sure you're uncomfortable."

I glanced down and realized he was right. At some point in the evening, I had lost my suit jacket, and the heels I had been wearing all day suddenly felt like weights dragging me down. I cursed under my breath, remembering how much I had spent on that set.

"Take the shirt," Giancarlo said. "Sleep on the couch."

I grabbed the shirt but hesitated. "I want to go home," I finally said, my voice firmer than I felt.

He shook his head. "When I found you, you could barely stand. You're not going home unsupervised."

He turned to walk away, but I wasn't ready to let him have the last word.

"And what would I have done if you hadn't found me?" I hissed. "How do you think I managed all these years without you?"

He froze, his back to me for a moment before turning on his heel and approaching me, his chest brushing against mine as he towered over me.

"You want to know what would have happened?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Some random man would have seen you on the street and thought you were an easy fuck. You could've been hurt."

He paused, his words sharp, then continued. "Or are you just mad that I'm in the way, keeping you from fucking my brother again?"

I flinched at his words, his harsh tone striking deep.

"You would've loved that, wouldn't you?" he continued, his voice like a knife cutting through me. "You love the thought of getting revenge on me by sleeping with my family. Guess what, Cat? Nothing you do will hurt me. I made a choice when I left, and the choice was for both of us. I'm sorry you couldn't recognize the sacrifice I made to be better. But I told you—you were it for me. I didn't realize you were so..." His voice trailed off before he muttered, "Impatient. To not be able to wait for me to come back and give you the life you deserved."

Tears welled in my eyes as his words hit me like blows. "Was I supposed to know all of this then? You left me on the verge of taking one of the most important tests of my life, and you didn't tell me. I'm supposed to thank you?"

I shook my head, forcing the tears back. "I don't owe you forgiveness, Giancarlo. I don't owe you patience. I built a career for myself, because in the end, all I have is me."

He reached for me, wrapping his fingers in my hair, tilting my head up so I was forced to meet his gaze. The act felt eerily familiar, like the dream I'd had, but this time it was real. This time, it was more forceful—full of power rather than love.

"Look at me when you're talking to me," he growled, his voice vibrating through me. "Everything I've done since the day I laid eyes on you was for you. Every single fucking thing."

His grip loosened slightly, but he didn't let go. "I live a life for you, not for myself. Clearly, you couldn't do the same for me. And I understand why. I gave you nothing when you needed my everything."

He lowered his head until his forehead rested against mine, his breath mingling with mine as he closed his eyes.

"But in this, you became so strong. I am proud of you when I look at you. I melt at the thought of the woman you've become without me. You would never have been this way if I stayed."

I watched him quietly, my chest tightening as his words washed over me.

"Fuck you," I spat, backing away from his face. "I became this way because I had to. It was out of desperation and necessity."

"And so did I," he shot back, his voice not raised, but the intensity behind it palpable.

Before I could respond, he brought our faces together again, crushing his lips against mine in a kiss that wasn't about love or sweetness. This kiss was a statement. It was full of the pain, frustration, and unresolved feelings that had been brewing between us for years. It was a kiss to prove a point, that no matter what I thought, he still had a claim on me, whether I liked it or not.

This wasn't love. This was power.