His mother talks to him and that's the moment I needed.
I run.
CHAPTER FIVE
Nico
Ihaven't slept. Not really. A few hours of staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment my mother's face turned purple. The way her hands clawed at her throat.
Lucky.
That's what Dr. Marchetti said when he finished examining her last night. "She's lucky. The obstruction cleared completely. No damage to her throat or airway. Just some bruising and soreness for a few days."
Lucky. As if luck had anything to do with it.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on knees, head in my hands. My fingers dig into my scalp hard enough to hurt. Good. I deserve worse.
I froze.
The man who has pulled bullets from flesh, who has stopped arterial bleeding with nothing but a belt and steady hands. The same man who once kept a soldato alive for forty-five minutes until the doc arrived, applying pressure to three separate gunshot wounds while giving orders to secure the perimeter.
That man watched his mother choke and froze.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
I grab it, ready to hurl it against the wall, but the name on the screen stops me.
Pietro: Family meeting. Kitchen. 20 minutes.
I type back a single letter. K.
Then I sit there for another five minutes.
The moment it happened, my brain did what it always does. Calculated. Assessed. Heimlich maneuver. Get behind her. Fist above navel. Quick upward thrusts. I knew exactly what to do. I've known since I was sixteen and Giuseppe made all of us take emergency medical training.
But my body wouldn't move.
Because when you live with death as a constant companion your brain starts to assume the worst. Every emergency becomes fatal. Every crisis becomes a corpse.
I was already calculating how to tell Pietro. Already composing the words in my head. She's gone. I couldn't save her. I'm sorry.
Pathetic.
And then that woman. Kristen.
"I've got it!"
Three words. And suddenly the weight I couldn't carry was lifted from my hands.
She moved like she'd done it a thousand times. Confident. Efficient. No hesitation. While I stood there like a fucking statue, she wrapped her arms around my mother and acted.
I push off the bed and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells espresso and warm bread. Giulia must have gotten up early to bake.
Some things never change.
Pietro sits at the head of the table, tablet propped against a crystal vase. Aria occupies the chair to his right, both hands wrapped around a cup.
