That's never good. That's never, ever good.
"When did you last check the family accounts?"
Claudio doesn't answer.
"Claudio. When?"
"Last week." He runs a hand through his hair. "They were... low. Lower than they should be. But I thought maybe he was just moving money around. You know how he gets about?—"
"How low?"
He won't meet my eyes.
"How. Low."
"Almost empty." The words come out like a confession. "The main account. The backup. Even the one Mama set up before she died. Almost empty."
The garage tilts. I grab the workbench to steady myself.
No. No, no, no.
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I was going to figure it out. I was going to talk to him?—"
"He's gambling again." It's not a question. "He never stopped, did he? All those promises after Mama's funeral. All those tears. And he never stopped."
Claudio's silence is answer enough.
I think about Gianna in the kitchen. Worried about her skincare order. Worried about something so small and normal while our father gambles away everything we have left.
I think about Eraldo Romano. My father. The man who held my hand at my mother's funeral and swore he would take care of us.
The man who is destroying us instead.
Bruno
The door to my room clicks open.
I don't turn around. Don't need to. Valentino. The only person in this house who doesn't knock like they're afraid I'll bite.
Maybe because he knows I won't. Or maybe because he doesn't care if I do.
Glass clinks against glass. The sound of whiskey being poured. Two glasses. He's staying.
"You look like shit again," Valentino says.
I wheel around to face him. He's already settled into the leather chair across from my bed, one ankle crossed over his knee, holding out a glass of amber liquid. His eyes assess me without pity.
I take the whiskey. "Fuck off."
He raises his glass. "Salute."
We drink.
Valentino sets his glass on the side table and leans back. He looks tired. Running security for the Sicily compound while managing the family's European connections—it wears on him. But he flew in three days ago when Pietro called about some business matter, and now he's here. In my room. Drinking my whiskey.
"Nico's not wrong," he says.
