"You're—" Pietro stops, swallows. "How long have you been awake?"
"Three hours. Three fucking hours of these nurses treating me like I'm made of glass. I want out. I want—" A pause, heavy breathing. "Where's Riccardo?"
And that's the worst question he could have made.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lorenzo
The Mercedes cuts through Chicago's empty streets. Pietro drives but right now I don't care not being the one driving.
Neither of us speaks.
What is there to say? Bruno's awake. After six months in a coma, our brother opened his eyes and demanded to come home. It should be the best news we've had since Riccardo died.
Pietro takes a corner too fast, tires squealing. I don't comment. He needs this. The speed, the control over something, anything. Because in a few minutes, we'll walk into that clinic and shatter Bruno's world.
Where's Riccardo?
The question echoes in my head. Of all the things Bruno could have asked first—about his injuries, about Lucrezia, about the family—he asked for our oldest brother. The one who held us together. The one who's been in the ground since that day.
My phone buzzes. Vittoria.
I don't answer. Can't. When Pietro told her Bruno was awake, she collapsed against the wall, sobbing so hard she couldn'tbreathe. Not tears of joy. Tears of relief mixed with dread. Because she knows what we have to tell him. And then we'll start grieving all over again.
Pietro's phone rings but he declines the call.
"Who was that?" I ask.
"Valentino." His voice is rough. "Calling from Sicily."
Of course. News travels fast in our world, even across an ocean. Valentino's probably already calculating flight times, wondering if he should come back. And Ava?—
Ava left for Sicily four days ago. Couldn't stand being in the compound anymore, she said. Too many ghosts. She's staying with our mother, our aunt and Valentino. He is our cousin and the one running things there and taking care of them.
The clinic appears ahead, all glass and concrete trying to look welcoming. It fails. Places like this—they smell like antiseptic and broken promises.
Pietro pulls into the underground garage, finding Bruno's usual spot without thinking. Muscle memory. We've made this drive so many times over the past six months, it's carved into our bones.
He cuts the engine. The silence feels heavier than before.
"He's going to lose it," Pietro finally says.
"Yeah."
"When we tell him about Riccardo?—"
"I know."
Pietro's hands are still on the wheel. "I'm the Don now. He won't accept that."
He's right. Bruno was supposed to inherit after Riccardo. That was the plan, the order of things. Pietro was never meant for this. Third son, the wild one, the one who took unnecessary risks. Now he sits in the big chair while Bruno's been sleeping.
"And I'm marrying a Torrino," I mutter, almost laughing at the absurdity.
Pietro does laugh. "Fuck. He's going to think we've lost our minds."
Maybe we have.
