"Aria, Carmela, and Valentino live in Sicily." Her voice stays light. "The villa there. Aria only came to Chicago to help me get on the plane because I'm scared of it."
"That's sweet of her."
"That's Aria." Giulia sets the dish in the rack. "She mothers everyone. Even the people who should be mothering her."
"And Bruno?"
"Bruno has his own nurse. A specialist." She doesn't turn around. "He doesn't need anything from you."
"I just thought?—"
"Kristen." Now she faces me. Her eyes hold something I can't quite read. Warning, maybe. Or fear. "Bruno is... not well. The accident changed him. What happened to him, it broke something inside."
I know broken. I lived with broken for years.
"I understand," I say quietly.
"No." Giulia shakes her head. "You don't. And that's good. That's how it should stay." She crosses to me, her hand covering mine on the counter. "Stay away from his wing. If you hear him in the halls, go the other direction."
My stomach tightens. "Is he dangerous?"
"He's in pain." Her grip on my hand firms. "And people in that much pain, they lash out. They say things. Do things." She pauses. "The cruelty isn't really him. But knowing that doesn't make the wounds hurt less."
I think about Jack. How he'd apologize after tearing me apart with his words. I didn't mean it. You know I love you. You just make me so crazy sometimes.
The cruelty was always really him. He just got better at hiding it.
"I'll stay away," I promise.
Giulia studies my face.
"Good girl." She pats my hand and steps back, the warmth returning to her expression. "Now. Let me show you the rest of the house."
Nico
I never oversleep. My internal clock runs, dragging me out of unconsciousness at five-thirty every single day whether I want it to or not. But this morning? This morning I peeled my eyes open at eight, and my head immediately reminded me why I stopped drinking whiskey with Valentino past midnight.
Cazzo. Never again.
I need coffee. Enough to burn the fog out of my brain and make me functional for the three meetings Pietro scheduled before noon. My feet know the path to the kitchen without conscious input, carrying me through the compound's hallways while I press my palm against my temple like that'll somehow ease the throbbing.
Then I hear it.
A voice. Soft. Coming from the living room.
I stop walking. My body goes still the way it does before important decisions. Complete cessation of movement while my brain processes new information. But this isn't a threat. This is...
What the hell is that?
I move toward the sound without deciding to. The living room door stands open. And in the center of it all, Kristen Thomas holds a feather duster like it's a microphone.
She's singing.
Not well. The notes wobble and slide around where they should be. Her daughter was right. There's something vaguely amphibian about her upper register. But she's singing anyway, swaying her hips as she runs the duster over the mantelpiece, completely unaware that I'm standing in the doorway like a statue.
The song is something I don't recognize. Old, maybe. Some pop thing from a decade ago. She hums through the parts she doesn't remember, then picks back up when the chorus hits.
"—and I keep on falling..."
