Page 52 of The Shadow King's Brother

You are the Shadow King. You do not weep.

Vinny cradles Celeste; his movements are surprisingly gentle. “She looks strong. Even this small. What’s her name?”

“Celeste,” Maria replies, her hand resting on Vinny’s arm.

Vinny nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the baby’s face. “It’s perfect, Mama. She is divine. But… she also has fire. Fire in her eyes.”

I turn back, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Fuoco—Fuochi. Her middle name can be Fuchi.”

”Fire, in Italian,” Maria says and nods.

Vinny looks up at me. “That’s fucking beautiful, brother.”

Silence settles over the room, a fragile truce in a war that never truly ended.

We stay for a few hours, watching Celeste sleep and listening to Maria talk about gardening and baby clothes. It’s a strange, surreal moment.

Finally, it’s time to leave.

The exhaustion is a physical ache now, a heavy weight dragging me down. I kiss Celeste goodbye, promising to return soon. I nod to Vinny. “Let’s go, brother.”

The drive back to the mansion is slow. Angelo is driving, and Vinny stares out the window, his expression unreadable. I rub my eyes, fighting off the exhaustion clawing at me. It’s 4 AM. I need sleep. I need to think. But fatigue weighs me down, blurring the edges of my awareness.

Through the lit streets, Maria’s image pops into my mind—handing Celeste over to Vinny like some transaction. How the hell am I supposed to protect her if my own mother is throwing her to the wolves? On the other hand Vinny behaved. I don’t know what to think anymore.

I blink, sluggish, my body aching from too many sleepless nights and too many goddamn problems.

Slumping against the door, I close my eyes, surrendering to the moment. I catch Vinny shifting beside me out of the corner of my hazy awareness. I don’t care—until I do.

Tires screech suddenly, jerking the car sideways. My body lurches with the motion, and Angelo’s voice cuts through the air like a whip.

“Che cazzo fai?!” he shouts at another driver, his curse muffled by the glass but still loud enough to rattle my already frayed nerves.

My arms twitch in a weak, instinctive attempt at self-defense—but Vinny’s hand is already there. He braces me, one palm gripping the window frame, the other catching my shoulder with a silent strength. He steadies me without hesitation, as if it’s second nature.

His jaw is tight, eyes locked on the passing blur of night outside. He doesn’t look at me.

“What are you doing?” I mutter, narrowing my eyes, searching his face for the crack in his mask.

He shrugs, but it’s hollow—like the gesture costs him. “Nothing.”

That’s not Vinny. Not the version of him that lived to provoke, to fight, to watch me stumble.

And that’s why it hits different. Because this Vinny… the one who still protects me on reflex—that’s the one who remembers. That’s the one who scares me. Or maybe—just maybe—he confuses the hell out of me.

I lean back more confused and exhausted than ever. My muscles loosen, and my head falls back against the seat. The small, unexpected gesture gnaws at something deep inside me. It should bring comfort. It doesn’t.

The world outside fades, swallowed by the low hum of the engine as we head home.

Streetlights blur into streaks. My body relaxes, but my mind won’t.

As the darkness of sleep pulls me under, one thought clings like a splinter beneath my skin:

What the hell was that?

* * *

As we approach the mansion,I notice the outside lights are off, unusual for this time of night. The gates, which are always secured, stand slightly ajar. The air is thick with a silence that feels wrong.

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