I grip the wheels of my chair. "Drop it."
"Bruno—"
"I said drop it."
Valentino holds up his hands. Steps back.
But he doesn't leave.
He just stands there. Waiting.
The silence stretches between us.
I think about that night. The crowd pressing in. The whispered comments. The pitying looks.
I think about how my chest tightened. How my hands started shaking. How the room felt like it was shrinking around me.
And then Antonella was there.
Her hand on my shoulder.
One touch.
That's all it took.
One touch and the panic stopped. The noise faded. I could breathe again.
I haven't been touched like that in two years.
Not since before the shooting.
People touch me now out of necessity. Maria helping me into bed. Will adjusting my position during therapy. Medical touches. Clinical touches.
No one touches me just because.
No one reaches for me without a reason.
But Antonella did.
She put her hand on my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I was just a man who needed grounding.
And something inside me cracked.
"She's twenty-one," I say finally.
Valentino frowns. "What?"
"Antonella. She's twenty-one years old." I stare at my hands. "I'm forty. Almost twice her age."
"So?"
"So she's a child."
"She's not a child. She's a woman who married a stranger to save her family." Valentino's voice sharpens. "That's not something a child does."
I know that.
I know she's not a child.
