Lorenzo laughs again. Still bitter. But softer now.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" He moves to the small bar in the corner of the room. Pours two glasses of whiskey. "Both of us keeping secrets we thought would protect the family. Both of us wrong."
He wheels one of the chairs away from the table and sets a glass on the surface near my hand.
Then he sits across from me.
We drink in silence.
The whiskey burns going down. Good burn. Expensive burn. Lorenzo only stocks the best.
"I hated you," Lorenzo says finally. "For months. I couldn't even look at you without wanting to—" He stops. Shakes his head. "But then I realized something."
"What?"
"I did the same thing." He meets my eyes. "Different secret. Same choice. I thought I was protecting everyone by staying quiet. Instead, I just made everything worse when the truth finally came out."
"We're both idiots."
"Apparently."
Another silence. But this one feels different. Less hostile. More tired.
"I'm not saying I forgive you," Lorenzo says. "I'm not sure I can. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Luna—" His voice catches. "What she did. What Riccardo did. Finding out you knew... it felt like another betrayal on top of everything else."
"I understand."
"But I'm also not saying I hate you." He takes another drink. "I'm saying... I don't know what I'm saying. I'm saying we're brothers. And maybe that has to mean something. Even when we fuck up. Even when we hurt each other."
I stare at him.
This is more than I expected. More than I deserved.
"I'm trying," I say. "To be better. To stop making the same mistakes."
"The girl." Lorenzo's lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Antonella. She's good for you."
Before I can respond, the door opens.
Liam steps inside first. His hand rests on his hip, near his weapon. Behind him, two of our men drag a figure between them.
Eraldo Romano.
He looks like a ghost.
His suit is wrinkled. Stained. The collar of his shirt is open, revealing a neck that's too thin. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharp beneath papery skin. Dark circles ring his eyes like bruises.
He's lost weight since I last saw him. Too much weight. His clothes hang off his frame like they belong to someone else.
The men release him. He stumbles forward, catches himself on the edge of the table.
"Sit," I say.
Eraldo looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot. Empty. The eyes of a man who's already given up.
He sits.
Lorenzo moves to stand by the window again. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. He's here as a witness, not a participant. This is my mess to handle.
