"Six months," Pietro says quietly.
Bruno's jaw works. "Six months. And the first thing I hear is this doctor telling me I'll never walk again. Then you two show up looking like someone died—" He stops. His eyes narrow. "Where's Riccardo?"
There it is. The question we drove here dreading.
Pietro moves closer to the bed. "Bruno, a lot has happened?—"
"Where. Is. Riccardo?" Each word drops like a stone into water.
I force myself to meet his eyes. Those dead, empty eyes that used to be warm when he'd ruffle my hair and call me little brother.
"He's gone," Pietro says. "The Russians. At your wedding." His voice cracks. "Riccardo didn't make it."
Bruno doesn't move. Doesn't blink. For a moment, I think maybe he didn't hear, didn't understand. Then his hand moves to his shoulder, fingers finding the bullet scar there.
"My wedding," he repeats, voice flat. "The Russians shot up my wedding."
"Yes."
"Riccardo's dead."
"Yes."
"And I can't walk."
Neither of us answers that one. What's the point?
Bruno's laugh starts low, building into something that makes my skin crawl. It's not grief. It's not even anger. It's when your soul breaks.
"Tell me everything else. Every fucking detail. Now."
Sophia
The living room feels like a funeral parlor where nobody's died yet. Or maybe someone has, and we're all waiting to find out who.
Nora sits beside Vittoria on the couch, her hand resting on the younger woman's shoulder. Giulia stands behind them, fingers working through prayer beads I didn't know she carried. The soft click-click-click is the only sound besides Nico's pacing.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I hover near the doorway, unsure if I should stay or go. This is family business. They're waiting Bruno.
Bruno. The brother in the coma who just woke up.
I'm not stupid. I've pieced together enough from what I know even if it's little. He was supposed to be Don after Riccardo. Second in line. The heir.
Now he's waking up to find his older brother dead and Pietro in the position that should've been his.
Giulia's beads click faster.
The weight of their fear presses against my chest. They wanted their brother back, prayed for him to wake up. But now that he has, they're terrified of what comes next.
"Is there anything I can do?" I ask. "To help?"
Nico stops mid-stride and stares at me.
"You want to help?" His voice is quiet, dangerous.
"Yes."
