I should say something. I should stand up, put myself between my brother and these men, do something other than sit here frozen in my armchair.
But my mind is racing.
Marriage.
They want a bride. A Romano daughter to bind our families together, to ensure our loyalty, to give them leverage over us for the rest of our lives.
Gianna is nineteen. She's never had a serious boyfriend. She cries during sad commercials and believes in true love and happy endings.
She can't do this.
I won't let her do this.
The thought crystallizes in my mind, sharp and clear. Whatever happens next, whatever deal gets made in this room tonight, Gianna will not be part of it.
Which means...
I push the thought away. I can't think about that yet. I can't think about what it would mean to marry a stranger, to become property, to spend the rest of my life paying for my father's mistakes.
One thing at a time.
"I need time," Papa says. His voice cracks on the words. "Please. Just give me time to think, to figure out?—"
Nico stands.
The movement is smooth, unhurried. He tucks his phone into his jacket pocket and buttons his suit coat with precise, deliberate motions.
Lorenzo follows, straightening his cuffs.
"You have twelve hours," Nico says. He doesn't look at Papa when he speaks. His eyes find mine instead. "We'll return tomorrow morning for your answer."
He turns toward the door.
Lorenzo pauses beside my chair. For a moment, I think he's going to say something.
Instead, he just nods. A small, almost respectful gesture.
Then he follows his brother out.
The door clicks shut.
Bruno
The whiskey burns going down but I need something to feel besides this fucking rage.
My bedroom is dark. I didn't bother with the lights when I wheeled in here. The moon cuts through the windows, painting silver stripes across the floor. Across the distance between my chair and my bed.
Twelve feet. Maybe fifteen.
I've measured it a hundred times. Counted the tiles. Memorized every shadow, every obstacle. Because one day I'm going to walk that distance. Not wheel. Walk.
I set the glass on the side table and grip the armrests. My shoulders tense. Arms flex. I've been doing this for months now—lifting myself, transferring my weight, building the upper body strength I need to compensate for what my legs can't do. Yet.
The chair creaks as I push up. My triceps burn. Good burn. The kind that means progress.
At first, they had people here. Nurses. Aides. Men Pietro hired to help me bath, dress, get into bed like a fucking infant. I lasted three days before I threw a lamp at one of them. Told Pietro if he sent another stranger into my room, I'd wheel myself off the balcony just to spite him.
He believed me. Smart man, my brother.
