He crosses the room, stopping just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"The best thing you can do," he says slowly, "is go to your room. Now."
"Nico!" Vittoria starts to stand, but Nora pulls her back down.
"No, Vittoria. He's right." Nico doesn't look away from me. "This is family business."
Bruno doesn't even know I exist in this house.
"You're right," I say, lifting my chin. "I'll go."
Vittoria protests again, but I'm already moving toward the stairs. This isn't my grief, my fear, my family drama. I'm here because Lorenzo made a deal.
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, listening to the muffled voices below.
I'll wait until everything settles.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sophia
The physical therapy room smells like rubber mats and antiseptic, a combination that makes my stomach turn. Bruno Sartori sits in his wheelchair near the parallel bars, jaw set in a permanent scowl that deepens when he sees me.
Two days have passed and this is the first time I meet him. I've stayed in my room
"I brought water." I hold up the bottle, an olive branch that feels pathetic even as I offer it. "Thought you might need it after your session."
His dark eyes track my movement as I approach. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows catches the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"What I need is for Torrinos to stay the hell away from me."
The words land like a slap, but I force myself not to retreat. Some years ago, I would have run. Now I plant my feet, studying this man.
"I could help with your exercises. My mother had physical therapy after her first round of chemo. I learned?—"
"You want to help?" He leans forward, and the sterile light of the room catches in his eyes. They aren't just angry. They’re hollowed out, burned clean by a fire that’s been feeding on him from the inside. This isn't just bitterness; it's the only thing holding his spine straight. "Tell me how your help brings back my ability to walk. Tell me how your Torrino kindness erases what your family did."
My throat tightens. "My uncle and cousin did that. Not me."
"Your blood. Your family." His knuckles go white against the armrests. "Every Torrino is the same. Users. Destroyers. And now my brother parades you around like you're different, like you're not going to destroy him too."
The accusation hurts more than it should. Maybe because part of me wonders if he's right. If destruction is coded into Torrino DNA, if I'm destined to hurt Lorenzo no matter how hard I try not to.
"I'm not going to hurt him."
Bruno's laugh is bitter, hollow. "They all say that. Right before they twist the knife."
He wheels himself toward the door, arms making the movement look effortless despite what it must cost him. At the threshold, he pauses without looking back.
"Stay away from me, Torrino. I don't need your pity, and I sure as hell don't need your guilt."
I stand there for three breaths, ten, twenty, letting his words settle into my bones. He's not wrong to hate me. Then I move. I need to do something with my hands.
The kitchen offers refuge, or at least familiarity.
I open cabinets at random, not sure what I'm looking for until I find it. A box of chamomile tea.
My hands shake as I fill the kettle.
