The wheelchair feels like a cage as I move through the dark hallways toward Pietro's office. My arms burn from the exertion,but I push harder. Faster. The pain is nothing compared to the fury building in my chest.
I should have seen this coming.
Eraldo Romano is a gambling addict. A coward. A man who sold his own daughter to pay his debts. Of course he would run. Of course he would find a way to disappear the moment the pressure became too much.
And I missed it.
Pietro's office door is already open when I arrive. He's standing behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, face grim. Valentino leans against the wall, arms crossed. Nico sits in one of the leather chairs, tablet in hand, scrolling through something.
Pietro ends his call when he sees me. "You heard."
"Liam just told me."
"We're working on tracking him. Nico's pulling financial records, credit card activity?—"
"He won't use credit cards." My voice comes out harsh. "He's not stupid. Desperate, but not stupid. He'll find cash games. Underground. The kind that don't ask questions."
Pietro nods slowly. "We have contacts in those circles. We'll find him."
"We should have found him before he ran." I wheel myself further into the room, stopping near the desk. "I should have seen this coming. The signs were there. A gambling addict with access to credit, sent to a city full of temptation, with minimal supervision?—"
"No one saw this coming," Pietro says. "Not you. Not Liam. Not any of us."
"That's not good enough."
"Bruno—"
"You put me in charge of this." The words rip out of me, louder than I intended. "You gave me the Romano situation as atest. To prove I could handle responsibility. To prove I was ready to lead." I slam my palm against the armrest of my wheelchair. "And I failed. Again."
Pietro's expression doesn't change. "One setback doesn't mean?—"
"One setback?" I laugh, and it sounds ugly even to my own ears. "I want to lead this family, but I can't even keep track of one pathetic gambler. I can't walk. I can't?—"
"Bruno." Pietro's voice sharpens. "That's enough."
"Is it?" I wheel closer to him, close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he carries. "You keep testing me. Keep waiting for me to prove myself. But every test, I fail. Every chance you give me, I fuck up. Maybe Nico was right. Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I'll never be ready."
"Don't put words in my mouth," Nico says from his chair, not looking up from his tablet.
"I'm not. You said it yourself. At the first meeting. You said I'd lead us all to our deaths."
Pietro steps around the desk, positioning himself between us. "This isn't productive. We need to focus on finding Eraldo, not?—"
"Not what?" I snap at him. "Not acknowledging that your crippled brother can't handle the simplest fucking task you give him?"
"Bruno—"
"You should have given this to Nico. Or Valentino. Anyone but me."
Pietro's jaw tightens. "I gave it to you because you're capable. Because you need to remember that you're still?—"
"Still what? Still a Sartori? Still useful?" I'm shouting now, and I can't stop. "I'm in a fucking wheelchair, Pietro. I can't chase down a runaway gambler. I can't intimidate anyone whoisn't already afraid of our name. I can't do anything except sit here and watch while everyone else cleans up my messes."
"That's not true."
"It is true. You know it. Everyone in this room knows it. You keep giving me tests I can't pass because you feel guilty. Because you took my position while I was in a coma, and now you don't know how to tell me I'll never get it back."
The silence that follows is deafening.
