He looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble thicker than usual. His suit jacket is missing, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
"You're early," he says.
"So are you."
He crosses to the sideboard where Giulia has laid out coffee. Pours himself a cup. Takes a long drink before turning back to me.
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Could you?"
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Nora had a rough night."
I glance at the empty doorway behind him. "She's not coming?"
"Morning sickness." He settles into the chair to my right. Not at the head of the table. Not in the Don's seat. "She can't keep anything down before noon."
"That bad?"
"The doctor says it's normal. Should ease up in a few weeks." He takes another drink of coffee. "She's frustrated. Wants to be here. Wants to meet your wife properly."
My wife.
The words feel strange. Foreign. Like they belong to someone else's life.
"There's time," I say.
Pietro nods. Sets down his cup. Studies me with those calculating eyes that see too much.
"You showed up," he says.
"You told me to."
"I've told you a lot of things over the past two years. You've ignored most of them."
I don't respond. He's not wrong.
"What changed?" he asks.
Everything. Nothing. I don't know how to explain it. Don't know if I want to.
"You said if I want to be Don, I need to act like one."
"And you want it? Still?"
"I've always wanted it."
"Wanting and being ready are different things."
My jaw tightens. "I know."
Pietro leans back in his chair. He's only thirty-six, but the past two years have aged him. Running the family. Managing the business. Dealing with threats from every direction.
And dealing with me.
"I never wanted this position," he says quietly. "You know that."
I do know. Pietro was always the strategist. The planner. The one who preferred to work behind the scenes. Riccardo was supposed to lead. Then me. Pietro was supposed to advise.
