Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lorenzo
The Mercedes cuts through Chicago's empty streets. Pietro drives but right now I don't care not being the one driving.
Neither of us speaks.
What is there to say? Bruno's awake. After six months in a coma, our brother opened his eyes and demanded to come home. It should be the best news we've had since Riccardo died.
Pietro takes a corner too fast, tires squealing. I don't comment. He needs this. The speed, the control over something, anything. Because in a few minutes, we'll walk into that clinic and shatter Bruno's world.
Where's Riccardo?
The question echoes in my head. Of all the things Bruno could have asked first—about his injuries, about Lucrezia, about the family—he asked for our oldest brother. The one who held us together. The one who's been in the ground since that day.
My phone buzzes. Vittoria.
I don't answer. Can't. When Pietro told her Bruno was awake, she collapsed against the wall, sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe. Not tears of joy. Tears of relief mixed with dread. Because she knows what we have to tell him. And then we'll start grieving all over again.
Pietro's phone rings but he declines the call.
"Who was that?" I ask.
"Valentino." His voice is rough. "Calling from Sicily."
Of course. News travels fast in our world, even across an ocean. Valentino's probably already calculating flight times, wondering if he should come back. And Ava—
Ava left for Sicily four days ago. Couldn't stand being in the compound anymore, she said. Too many ghosts. She's staying with our mother, our aunt and Valentino. He is our cousin and the one running things there and taking care of them.
The clinic appears ahead, all glass and concrete trying to look welcoming. It fails. Places like this—they smell like antiseptic and broken promises.
Pietro pulls into the underground garage, finding Bruno's usual spot without thinking. Muscle memory. We've made this drive so many times over the past six months, it's carved into our bones.
He cuts the engine. The silence feels heavier than before.
"He's going to lose it," Pietro finally says.
"Yeah."
"When we tell him about Riccardo—"
"I know."
Pietro's hands are still on the wheel. "I'm the Don now. He won't accept that."
He's right. Bruno was supposed to inherit after Riccardo. That was the plan, the order of things. Pietro was never meant for this. Third son, the wild one, the one who took unnecessary risks. Now he sits in the big chair while Bruno's been sleeping.
"And I'm marrying a Torrino," I mutter, almost laughing at the absurdity.
Pietro does laugh. "Fuck. He's going to think we've lost our minds."
Maybe we have.
"We tell him together," I say.
"Everything?"
"The truth. All of it. He deserves that much."
Pietro nods, finally releasing the steering wheel. His hands shake slightly before he clenches them into fists.
We exit the car, our footsteps echoing in the empty garage. The elevator ride feels endless. Each floor we pass is another second closer to destroying whatever peace Bruno found in his coma dreams.
The ICU ward is too quiet, too bright. A nurse recognizes us, her smile professionally sympathetic.
"Mr. Sartori is quite insistent about leaving," she says carefully.
Pietro's laugh has no humor in it. "That sounds like Bruno."
The door swings open and what I see stops me cold.
Bruno sits propped against the hospital bed, but it's not my brother looking back at us. This is someone else wearing his face. His dark hair hangs longer than he ever kept it, greasy and unkempt. The sharp features that made him look like our father have hardened into something cruel.
But it's his eyes that stopped me. They're empty. Dead. Like staring into an abyss that stares back.
A doctor stands pressed against the wall, sweat beading on his forehead. His hands shake as he clutches a clipboard to his chest like armor.
"Finally," Bruno says, and his voice is gravel over broken glass. "Was starting to think you'd leave me here to rot with this stronzo."
The doctor's face goes white.
"Bruno—" Pietro starts.
"This doctor." Bruno's lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "He's going to end up dead. Very soon."
The doctor makes a sound like a wounded animal. "I-I was just explaining—Mr. Sartori, please—"
"What's going on?" I step forward, putting myself between the doctor and Bruno's line of sight.
The doctor's words tumble out in a rush. "The bullet—when it entered his spine—there's damage to the lumbar region. Significant nerve damage. I've been trying to explain that Mr. Sartori will need... he can't..." He swallows hard. "He can't use his legs. He'll need a wheelchair for mobility."
The room goes silent except for the heart monitor's steady beep.
Bruno's laugh cuts through it like a knife. "You hear that, brothers? This cazzo thinks I'll need a wheelchair." His eyes fix on the doctor again. "What I'll need is a casket for you if you keep talking."
"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it. This is worse. So much worse than just telling him about Riccardo.
Pietro's face has gone stone. "Doctor, get out."
"But Mr. Sartori needs to understand—"
"Out." Pietro doesn't raise his voice, but the doctor scrambles for the door like his ass is on fire. "We'll talk later about my brother's condition."
The door clicks shut, leaving just the three of us.
Bruno's cruel mask doesn't slip. If anything, it hardens. "Now. Everything. Right fucking now."
Pietro and I exchange a look. Where do we even start? Your legs don't work? Riccardo's dead? You've been in a coma for six months while the family fell apart?
"Bruno—" I try.
"Don't." He cuts me off with a hand. "Don't give me that careful voice like I'm made of glass. I wake up after—how long?"
"Six months," Pietro says quietly.
Bruno's jaw works. "Six months. And the first thing I hear is this doctor telling me I'll never walk again. Then you two show up looking like someone died—" He stops. His eyes narrow. "Where's Riccardo?"
There it is. The question we drove here dreading.
Pietro moves closer to the bed. "Bruno, a lot has happened—"
"Where. Is. Riccardo?" Each word drops like a stone into water.
I force myself to meet his eyes. Those dead, empty eyes that used to be warm when he'd ruffle my hair and call me little brother.
"He's gone," Pietro says. "The Russians. At your wedding." His voice cracks. "Riccardo didn't make it."
Bruno doesn't move. Doesn't blink. For a moment, I think maybe he didn't hear, didn't understand. Then his hand moves to his shoulder, fingers finding the bullet scar there.
"My wedding," he repeats, voice flat. "The Russians shot up my wedding."
"Yes."
"Riccardo's dead."
"Yes."
"And I can't walk."
Neither of us answers that one. What's the point?
Bruno's laugh starts low, building into something that makes my skin crawl. It's not grief. It's not even anger. It's when your soul breaks.
"Tell me everything else. Every fucking detail. Now."
Sophia
The living room feels like a funeral parlor where nobody's died yet. Or maybe someone has, and we're all waiting to find out who.
Nora sits beside Vittoria on the couch, her hand resting on the younger woman's shoulder. Giulia stands behind them, fingers working through prayer beads I didn't know she carried. The soft click-click-click is the only sound besides Nico's pacing.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I hover near the doorway, unsure if I should stay or go. This is family business. They're waiting Bruno.
Bruno. The brother in the coma who just woke up.
I'm not stupid. I've pieced together enough from what I know even if it's little. He was supposed to be Don after Riccardo. Second in line. The heir.
Now he's waking up to find his older brother dead and Pietro in the position that should've been his.
Giulia's beads click faster.
The weight of their fear presses against my chest. They wanted their brother back, prayed for him to wake up. But now that he has, they're terrified of what comes next.
"Is there anything I can do?" I ask. "To help?"
Nico stops mid-stride and stares at me.
"You want to help?" His voice is quiet, dangerous.
"Yes."
He crosses the room, stopping just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"The best thing you can do," he says slowly, "is go to your room. Now."
"Nico!" Vittoria starts to stand, but Nora pulls her back down.
"No, Vittoria. He's right." Nico doesn't look away from me. "This is family business."
Bruno doesn't even know I exist in this house.
"You're right," I say, lifting my chin. "I'll go."
Vittoria protests again, but I'm already moving toward the stairs. This isn't my grief, my fear, my family drama. I'm here because Lorenzo made a deal.
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, listening to the muffled voices below.
I'll wait until everything settles.