"We tell him together," I say.
"Everything?"
"The truth. All of it. He deserves that much."
Pietro nods, finally releasing the steering wheel. His hands shake slightly before he clenches them into fists.
We exit the car, our footsteps echoing in the empty garage. The elevator ride feels endless. Each floor we pass is another second closer to destroying whatever peace Bruno found in his coma dreams.
The ICU ward is too quiet, too bright. A nurse recognizes us, her smile professionally sympathetic.
"Mr. Sartori is quite insistent about leaving," she says carefully.
Pietro's laugh has no humor in it. "That sounds like Bruno."
The door swings open and what I see stops me cold.
Bruno sits propped against the hospital bed, but it's not my brother looking back at us. This is someone else wearing his face. His dark hair hangs longer than he ever kept it, greasy and unkempt. The sharp features that made him look like our father have hardened into something cruel.
But it's his eyes that stopped me. They're empty. Dead. Like staring into an abyss that stares back.
A doctor stands pressed against the wall, sweat beading on his forehead. His hands shake as he clutches a clipboard to his chest like armor.
"Finally," Bruno says, and his voice is gravel over broken glass. "Was starting to think you'd leave me here to rot with this stronzo."
The doctor's face goes white.
"Bruno—" Pietro starts.
"This doctor." Bruno's lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "He's going to end up dead. Very soon."
The doctor makes a sound like a wounded animal. "I-I was just explaining—Mr. Sartori, please?—"
"What's going on?" I step forward, putting myself between the doctor and Bruno's line of sight.
The doctor's words tumble out in a rush. "The bullet—when it entered his spine—there's damage to the lumbar region. Significant nerve damage. I've been trying to explain that Mr. Sartori will need... he can't..." He swallows hard. "He can't use his legs. He'll need a wheelchair for mobility."
The room goes silent except for the heart monitor's steady beep.
Bruno's laugh cuts through it like a knife. "You hear that, brothers? This cazzo thinks I'll need a wheelchair." His eyes fix on the doctor again. "What I'll need is a casket for you if you keep talking."
"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it. This is worse. So much worse than just telling him about Riccardo.
Pietro's face has gone stone. "Doctor, get out."
"But Mr. Sartori needs to understand?—"
"Out." Pietro doesn't raise his voice, but the doctor scrambles for the door like his ass is on fire. "We'll talk later about my brother's condition."
The door clicks shut, leaving just the three of us.
Bruno's cruel mask doesn't slip. If anything, it hardens. "Now. Everything. Right fucking now."
Pietro and I exchange a look. Where do we even start? Your legs don't work? Riccardo's dead? You've been in a coma for six months while the family fell apart?
"Bruno—" I try.
"Don't." He cuts me off with a hand. "Don't give me that careful voice like I'm made of glass. I wake up after—how long?"
