"Get out." His voice scrapes like gravel against concrete.
"No."
His shoulders tense. Even from behind, I can see how the muscle has started to waste. Not much. Bruno still does his physical therapy with the kind of brutal determination that's sent three therapists running. But there's a difference. A softening where there used to be steel.
The wheelchair is state-of-the-art. Custom built. Cost a lot. Bruno hates it with every fiber of his being.
"I said get out, Nico."
I close the door behind me and lean against it. "And I said no."
He finally turns. The movement is aggressive. He's gotten good at maneuvering that chair like a weapon. His dark eyes find mine, and there's nothing in them but cold fury.
This is what Bruno has become.
After Riccardo died, the position of Don should have passed to Bruno. Second-born. The golden son. Pietro never wanted the crown. He took it because someone had to, because Bruno was lying in a hospital bed with machines breathing for him, and the family needed a leader or we'd have been eaten alive.
The doctors say there's hope. Some days, I believe them. Bruno has feeling in his legs. Inconsistent, unpredictable, but present. Nerves that might heal. Muscles that might remember how to work. A spine that might, might, let him walk again.
Or might not.
Nobody says that part out loud anymore. Not after what happened to the last doctor who mentioned "permanent paralysis" within Bruno's hearing. The man didn't lose any teeth, but it was a close thing.
"Mamma's worried about you," I say.
Bruno's jaw tightens. "Mamma can worry from downstairs."
"She wants to see you."
"I don't want to see her."
The words are flat. Final.
Bruno wasn't always like this. Before the shooting, he was hard. Ruthless when necessary. But there was warmth underneath. He laughed at Vittoria's terrible jokes. He held her together after our father's death, even while grieving himself.
Then he woke up.
Six months of darkness, and when Bruno finally opened his eyes, he wanted to see our oldest brother.
Riccardo is dead. The Russians killed him. The same men who shot you.
He shattered that day. Not only for what happened to Riccardo, but for what happened to him too.
The men responsible ended up dead the same moment. But revenge doesn't heal bullet wounds. It doesn't make legs work again. It doesn't bring back the brother who should be sitting in the Don's chair while Bruno stood at his right hand.
"The new doctor starts Monday," I say.
"I'll give him a week."
"You gave the last one three days."
Bruno's mouth twists into something that isn't quite a smile. "He cried. I don't tolerate crying."
He cried because you threw a glass at his head, I think but don't say. There's no point. Bruno knows exactly what he did. He knows exactly what he's become. That's the worst part.
My brother isn't cruel by accident. He's cruel on purpose.
He's building walls so high that nobody can see the wreckage behind them.
