I catch the tape mid-air and pick absently at the edge of it. “You trying to beat some truth out of me?”
“Nah.” He grins. “You just looked like you needed to hit something.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in the ring, knuckles taped, breathing heavily. Sandro doesn’t go easy.
He never has.
We circle each other, feet light on the mat. He throws a jab. I dodge—barely.
“You’ve still got a solid left,” he says.
“Spent enough years breaking noses for the Don,” I mutter, jabbing back.
He blocks.
“Muscle memory.”
“Speaking of Dear Ol’ Dad…” His voice lowers. “You gonna tell me what’s got you pacing like a caged animal? As far as I recall, he’s the only one who could get you worked up like that.”
I hesitate, duck a hook, counter with one of my own. It lands, light but sharp. Sandro grins like I just paid him a compliment.
I breathe out hard. “Stephanie.” That’s all I say at first. Just her name, and it hits harder than any punch.
He drops his gloves slightly, giving me space.
“Our father gave the order to have her kidnapped,” I say, voice cracking on the word. “He didn’t just want me to forget her. He stole her from me.”
Sandro looks at me like he’s trying to see through the haze in my head. “Gio?—”
“I loved her. Iloveher. And he ripped her out of my life like she was an inconvenience.”
Sandro exhales, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “You sure about this?”
“Stephanie remembered fragments of that day. Voices. Pain. They said Don Augusta sent them to teachhis sona lesson. What else could it mean?”
Sandro shakes his head, pacing the ring now. “Jesus.”
I lean against the ropes, gloves dangling. “I mourned her. I blamed myself for failing to protect her from our enemies, like I'd said I could. And she—she was somewhere alone, rebuilding a life that wasn’t hers.”
He looks at me hard. “Does she remember everything?”
“Not yet. Pieces. Feelings. She sees my face in her dreams.”
“Does she know what you know?”
I shake my head.
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” he demands, taking up an offensive position and giving me only a moment’s notice before he strikes.
He swings. I duck.
Then I blink. “What?”
“If you still love her—and it’s clear you do—then you owe her the truth.”
It’s probably the most philosophical thing I’ve ever heard come out of Sandro’s mouth.
In truth, he’s got a lot more to say about this than he has about most things, and it makes me stop to listen—just long enough to catch a dirty right hook to the mouth. “Damn it, Sandro!” I hiss, stumbling back. Then I release my frustration in a huff. “I just… haven’t found the right way to tell her.”
