It's meant as a joke, but it comes out sincere, weighted with truth neither of us wants to examine.
"Sophia..."
"I know." I cut him off before he can list all the reasons this is insane. "Boundaries. Arrangement only. Keep it professional."
But exhaustion makes me reckless, and I lean against his shoulder without thinking. He goes rigid, and I start to pull away, embarrassment flooding through me.
His arm comes around me, careful but firm.
"In public, we'll need to be more..."
"Affectionate?" My voice comes out breathless.
"Convincing."
The word hangs between us, loaded with possibility. His thumb traces absent circles on my shoulder, and I wonder if he realizes he's doing it again.
Lorenzo
My arm stays around Sophia's shoulders, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, I feel like I'm touching solid ground.
Every instinct screams at me to create distance, to rebuild the walls that keep me functional. But my body refuses to obey. My fingers tighten slightly on her shoulder, betraying the war raging inside my chest.
"Lorenzo?" Her voice cuts through my thoughts, soft and uncertain.
I force myself to focus on her face instead of the memory of Bruno's dead eyes. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be complicated."
She doesn't move away from my touch. "Are you okay?"
The question catches me off guard. When was the last time someone asked me that and actually wanted an answer?
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically.
"Liar." She says it gently, without accusation.
She's right, but admitting weakness isn't something I do.
"Your brother," she starts carefully, "Bruno. He seems deeply hurt."
"He's not the man who went into that coma."
The understatement tastes bitter. When Pietro and I picked Bruno up from the clinic, I expected rage. Expected him to scream, to throw things, to demand blood for what happened to him and Riccardo. Instead, he listened to everything with the stillness of a monster conserving energy.
Five minutes of absolute silence. Then he looked at Pietro with those hollow eyes and said, "You remain Don until I get up from that chair."
Not if. Until.
Pietro accepted it without argument, but I saw the relief in his shoulders. My brother doesn't want the crown, never did. But Bruno wanting it back? That should worry us more than it comforts.
"He buried it all," I tell Sophia, not sure why I'm sharing this with her. "Every emotion, every human reaction. Just... buried it."
"That's terrifying," she whispers.
"It is." More terrifying than if he'd pulled a gun and started shooting. Rage burns out. What Bruno's doing is the kind of thing that ends with cities burning.
Sophia shifts slightly, and I realize I've pulled her closer without meaning to. Her head nearly rests against my chest now, and I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean that doesn't belong in my world of gunpowder and blood.
"You're exhausted," she observes.
