"These are beautiful." I gesture toward a bush of deep crimson roses, forcing brightness into my voice. "Did your family plant them?"
"My mother." Bruno's voice is rough. "Years ago. Before I was born."
"She has good taste."
He doesn't respond.
We walk—well, I walk and he wheels—deeper into the garden. The path curves around a small fountain, water trickling softly over stone. Benches line the edges, wrought iron with cushions that look new.
I sit on one of the benches. Bruno stops his chair beside me, angled so we're almost facing each other.
The silence stretches.
I should let it be. Should sit here quietly and enjoy the sunshine and the roses and the fact that I'm not locked in my room crying.
But the memories are still there. Nonna's face. Mama's hands. The smell of the hospital room where I watched her take her last breath.
I need distraction. I need conversation. I need something—anything—to pull me out of my own head.
"How old are you?"
Bruno turns to look at me. His dark eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his features.
"What?"
"Your age." I keep my voice light, casual. Like this is a normal question between a husband and wife. "I don't know how old you are."
He stares at me for a long moment. The confusion deepens, mixing with something else. Disbelief, maybe. Or frustration.
"You don't know?"
"No." I shrug, pulling my sweater tighter around myself. "I don't know anything about you, really."
His jaw works. I watch the muscle flex beneath his skin, watch his hands grip the armrests of his chair.
"Forty," he says finally. "I'm forty."
Forty. Nineteen years older than me.
I process this information, turning it over in my mind. He doesn't look forty. The lines around his eyes could belong to a man in his thirties. But there's something in his expression—a weariness, a weight—that speaks to decades of experience I can't imagine.
"When's your birthday?"
"March." The word comes out clipped. "March fifteenth."
"The Ides of March." I smile slightly. "Like Caesar."
Something shifts in his expression. The confusion fades, replaced by... interest? Surprise?
"You know your Roman history."
"I know my Shakespeare." I lean back against the bench, letting the sun warm my face. "Julius Caesar was required reading in high school. 'Beware the Ides of March' and all that."
Bruno is quiet for a moment. When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"What else don't you know?" His voice is different now. Softer. Almost curious.
"Everything." I meet his gaze directly. "I know your name is Bruno Sartori. I know you're in a wheelchair. I know your family is powerful and dangerous and that my father owed you money. That's it."
