Kristen leans forward slightly. "If you need anything, please ask. I know how overwhelming this can be."
There's something in her voice. Understanding. Like she's been where I am.
"Thank you," I say. "I appreciate that."
Nico's phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns, and stands.
"Business," he says to Pietro. "I'll handle it."
He leaves without another word. Kristen watches him go, then turns back to me.
"He's not as cold as he seems," she says quietly. "It just takes time."
I wonder if she's talking about Nico or Bruno.
Maybe both.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bruno
Ifind Giulia in the kitchen, directing staff like a general commanding troops. Three women arrange silver trays while two men carry cases of wine toward the cellar.
The compound transforms around us—flowers appearing on tables, crystal glasses emerging from storage, the smell of roasting meat drifting from somewhere deeper in the house.
Giulia notices me before I speak. Her hands pause over a clipboard, and there it is. That softening around her eyes. That slight tilt of her head.
Pity.
For over thirty years she's worked for my family. Bandaged my scraped knees. Snuck me cookies when my father said no dessert. She loves me. I know this.
But she looks at me now like I'm something broken.
I grip my wheels tighter and push the anger down. Not today. Today I need her help.
"Bruno." She sets down her clipboard and walks toward me, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did you eat? I can have Maria bring something to your room?—"
"I ate." The words come out sharper than intended.
Her eyebrows rise slightly. She's surprised I joined the family. Good. Let her be surprised.
"That's wonderful." She means it. The warmth in her voice is genuine, and somehow that makes it worse.
I think about the others. The ones born this way. The ones who never knew what it felt like to run, to stand, to walk into a room and have people look up instead of down. They've lived their whole lives with these stares. These soft voices. These careful movements around them, like they might shatter.
At least I had thirty-eight years of being whole. At least I remember what it felt like to be seen as a man first.
But them? They've never known anything else.
The thought doesn't comfort me. It makes my chest tight with something I refuse to name.
"I need your help," I say.
Giulia blinks. I've never asked her for help. Not once. Not even when I was a child and couldn't reach the cookie jar. I'd drag a chair across the kitchen floor, climb it myself, risk breaking my neck rather than ask.
Some things don't change.
"Of course." She recovers quickly, professional as always. "What do you need?"
