"Mr. Sartori, I'm so sorry." The words tumble out fast, frantic. "Lily wandered off while I was helping Vittoria with the—she knows she's not supposed to—I'll get her out of your way immediately."
She reaches for Lily's hand, pulling the girl up with gentle urgency.
"Mama, I was showing Bruno my trick?—"
"I know, baby. But we need to let Mr. Sartori rest."
I step into the doorway. Kristen's eyes meet mine for a split second before she's gone, Lily's small hand clutched in hers, footsteps rapid against the marble.
Silence settles.
Bruno doesn't look at me. His jaw is tight, hands gripping the wheels of his chair.
"This isn't a daycare, Nico." His voice is ice. "Control your staff or I will."
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. Say nothing.
"Did you hear me?" Bruno wheels around to face me, and there it is—the rage, the cruelty, the mask he wears like armor. "Keep that woman and her child out of my wing."
I study him. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his eyes won't quite meet mine. The slight tremor in his hands.
Pain, I realize. Not physical—though there's that too. Emotional. He let someone in for five minutes, and now he's terrified I saw.
I could say something. Could tell him I watched. Could push, prod, force him to acknowledge what we both know—that he's not as far gone as he wants everyone to believe.
But I've spent my entire life reading people. Knowing when to press and when to wait.
Bruno isn't ready.
"I'll talk to her," I say instead. Neutral. Giving him nothing.
His eyes narrow, searching my face for judgment or pity. Finding neither, something in him eases—just slightly.
"See that you do."
I nod once and turn to leave.
I walk away, leaving my brother alone with whatever ghosts haunt him. Behind me, I hear the wheels of his chair turning toward the window again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kristen
Lily's giggle floats through the media room like wind chimes.
Vittoria has my daughter tucked against her side on the massive sectional, a cashmere blanket draped over both of them like they've been doing this forever. On the screen, Moana belts out her anthem about the ocean calling her name, and Lily mouths along to every word, her small hand clutching Sir Floppington against her chest.
"Your mom has great taste in movies," Vittoria tells her, tucking a strand of Lily's hair behind her ear with such casual tenderness that my throat tightens.
"Mommy cries at the grandma part," Lily whispers conspiratorially.
"So does my mom." Vittoria grins. "It's a mom thing."
I lean against the doorframe, watching them. Vittoria Sartori is currently making fish faces at my four-year-old. And Lily? Lily is eating it up.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a text from my mother.
