"There," she says, satisfied. "Now you look like a birthday boy."
I look ridiculous. I know I look ridiculous. The elastic digs into my jaw and the point of the hat tilts slightly to the left.
Lily grins at me like she's accomplished something important.
"Thank you," I manage.
She nods seriously, then turns and runs back to Gianna, who's trying very hard not to laugh.
Movement catches my eye. Antonella walks toward me, carrying the cake with candles flickering on top. The flames cast dancing shadows across her face. She's smiling, but I can see the nervousness underneath—the way she's watching my reaction, ready to apologize if I explode.
I won't explode.
Not at her. Not anymore.
"Happy birthday to you..."
The singing starts. Nora's voice first, then Kristen joining in. Gianna adds her soprano. Oliver harmonizes from somewhere behind them.
I look at my brothers.
Pietro stands near the window, wearing a green party hat with polka dots. The Don of the Sartori family, the man who commands respect from every crime organization in Chicago, has a cone on his head with an elastic string cutting into his stubbled jaw.
Lorenzo is beside him. His hat is pink with white stripes. He catches my eye and shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips.
Nico.
Nico is wearing a yellow hat with cartoon balloons printed on it.
He's wearing a fucking party hat.
"Happy birthday to you..."
This is the most ridiculous thing my brothers have ever done. These men have killed. They've tortured. They've made decisions that shaped the criminal underworld of this city.
And they're standing in my living room wearing children's party hats, singing to me.
"Happy birthday, dear Bruno..."
Antonella stops in front of my wheelchair. The torte is dark chocolate, exactly as she promised. Forty-one candles crowd the surface, their flames merging into a small inferno.
"Happy birthday to you!"
The song ends. Everyone watches me.
Lily bounces on her toes. "Make a wish! Make a wish!"
I look at Antonella.
She's wearing a simple green dress. Her blonde hair falls loose around her shoulders. She's carrying my child inside her. Six weeks along. Our baby.
I lean forward and blow out the candles.
All forty flames extinguish at once. Smoke curls up from the wicks, filling the air with the smell of burnt sugar and melted wax.
Lily claps. "What did you wish for?"
"Can't tell you," I say. "Won't come true."
