His leg is shaking.
Not the subtle tremor I noticed in the study the other day. This is worse. Visible even from twenty feet away. Rhythmic and uncontrollable, like his body is betraying him.
I should leave. This is private. This is the kind of vulnerability a man like him would kill to protect.
But my feet are already carrying me down the stairs.
He doesn't hear me approach. Or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it. His arm stays over his face, hiding his expression. His leg keeps shaking.
I don't say anything. Don't announce myself.
I just sit on the ottoman beside his chair, reach out, and place my hand on his thigh.
His whole body goes rigid.
The shaking doesn't stop immediately. But it slows. Stutters. Like a motor winding down.
"Valentina." His voice is rough. He still hasn't moved his arm. "You’re here."
"I’m here."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need anything." I keep my voice steady, my hand gentle but firm against his leg. "But I'm here anyway."
His arm drops from his face.
His eyes are red-rimmed. Not from crying, I don't think men like him cry, but from something else. Exhaustion or strain from the effort of holding himself together.
"How long have you had this?" I ask quietly.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The anxiety. The tremors." I don't look away from him. "How long?"
For a moment, I think he's going to deny it. Going to throw up those walls I've seen him hide behind a hundred times. I start to walk away but he hold my hand gently. Then, he exhales slowly. "Since I was a boy."
The admission hangs in the air between us.
"My father noticed it when I was seven," he continues, his voice flat. Almost clinical. "Called me weak. Said I needed to learn control."
“It’s not your fault, Salvatore. What did he do?"
"Made sure I never shook in front of anyone again. By the time I was twelve, I'd learned to suppress it. To make sure no one ever saw."
She looks up at me. "But it never went away."
"No." He looks at my hand, still resting on his thigh. "It just... waits. For moments when I'm alone. When I can't hold it together anymore."
"And the shooting made it worse."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.
"My brother Dante was supposed to be Don," he says suddenly. "The eldest. It should have been his by birthright."
I frown. "I remember you saying you had four brothers. Matteo, Raffaele, Elio, and Shadow."
"Yes." Something painful crosses his face. "Dante is the oldest. But my father... my father skipped him in the succession."
