“And after, Enrico?” he asked quietly. “What happens when they don’t need to be here anymore?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
The question hung between us, filling the silence, and I realized—with painful clarity—that I didn’t have an answer.
FORTY-ONE
ANDRÉ FERRARA
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Two months.
Exactly sixty days since my brother’s life collapsed right in front of him.
Two months since Enrico left Valentina at the altar—two months since nothing had been the same. Not for her. Not for him. Not for any of us.
I turned the key in the penthouse lock and felt the now-familiar tightness in my chest. Coming here had become part of my daily routine, but repetition didn’t make it easier.
The apartment was dark, soaked in the stubborn smell of alcohol and despair. With a heavy sigh, I flipped the light switch and let weak light spill over the chaos Enrico had turned his home into.
Empty bottles littered the floor and coffee table. Half-filled glasses. Forgotten food. A depressing still life of self-destruction.
My eyes found him on the couch—wrinkled clothes, unshaven, staring at the ceiling with an empty, absent expression.
“Enough, Enrico,” I said, firm—using the same tone I used every day even though I knew it rarely landed. “This can’t keep going.”
He didn’t even look at me.
“Are you really going to live like this forever?” I pushed. “Drinking until you pass out, not eating, not sleeping, not taking care of yourself?”
Finally, Enrico moved—turning his head to face me. His eyes were glassy and lost, packed with a pain so deep it was almost hard to look at.
“Why not?” he slurred, voice rough, and let out a bitter, broken laugh. “Give me one reason good enough to stop, André.”
I stepped closer and sat in the armchair across from him, forcing him into my line of sight.
“Because you’re destroying yourself,” I said. “This isn’t justice. It’s not healthy.” I leaned in. “You made a mistake, but you can’t keep punishing yourself like this.”
He laughed again, more cynical this time.
“I didn’t make one mistake.” His voice shook. “I destroyed her life. I destroyed everything we had.” His throat worked. “The woman I loved—who I still love, André.” His anger flashed like a wound ripped open. “And she betrayed me. Do you understand? She betrayed me and I still love her anyway.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t deserve anything else but this.”
Watching him like that—my brother, the man who used to look unbreakable—was almost unbearable.
“You deserve more than this,” I said softly, trying to reach him. “We all make mistakes. We’re all capable of believing the wrong thing. But you have to move forward. You have to climb out of this.”
Enrico shook his head, eyes squeezing shut as tears started slipping down his face, silent and humiliating.
“I don’t have the strength, André,” he whispered. “I can’t get out. All I do is feel pain and hate myself. Every day.”
I stood and walked to him, set a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at me.
“You’re not alone,” I said. “I’m here. I’ve always been here. I’ll always be here.” My voice tightened. “But you have to take the first step. For yourself.”
Enrico exhaled and nodded slowly, defeat and grief stamped across his face.
