Chapter 2 #2
His mother, my Aunt Carmela, trails behind them. Aria's widowed sister is softer around the edges, quieter, but her eyes hold the same steel. She lost her husband twenty years ago. Grief made them roommates in a Sicilian villa.
"Where is he?" Aria demands. No greeting. No pleasantries. Just the question that's been burning holes in her since she boarded the plane.
Pietro steps forward. "Mama—"
"Don't." She holds up one hand, diamond rings catching light. "Don't Mama me, Pietro. I asked you a simple question."
"Bruno's in his room." Pietro's voice stays level. Steady. The Don mask firmly in place. "He's... having a difficult morning."
Aria's expression flickers. Just for a second. Then the steel returns.
I watch her carefully. This is only her third time back since moving to Sicily after our father's heart attack.
She fled Chicago like the city itself had wounded her, which in a way, it had.
Every street corner held Giuseppe's memory.
Every restaurant, every church, every shadow of the life they'd built together for forty-five years.
She came back once. When Bruno finally opened his eyes after six months in a coma.
She lasted three hours.
Seeing her youngest son in that wheelchair, his legs useless, his eyes full of rage and pain broke something in her. Because Bruno in that chair meant Riccardo in the ground. Same day. Same bullets. Same wedding that was supposed to be a celebration and became a massacre instead.
"I'll see him now," Aria announces. Not a request.
"He doesn't want visitors." The words come out before I can stop them.
Aria's gaze locks onto me. "Nicolò."
I hate my full name. Always have. But she's the only one who uses it, and I've never had the balls to correct her.
"Mama." I dip my head in acknowledgment.
"You think I care what Bruno wants?" She crosses the distance between us. Up close, I can see the exhaustion beneath her perfect makeup. The shadows under her eyes. "I carried that boy for nine months. I raised him. I will see my son."
"He's not a boy anymore." I keep my voice flat. Neutral. "He's a man who's been through hell and doesn't know how to come back from it. Pushing him won't help."
"Don't you dare tell me how to handle my own children." Aria's voice is ice. "I lost one son. I will not lose another to his own bitterness."
I don't react. Just hold her stare until she looks away first.
Valentino clears his throat. "Perhaps some coffee first? It was a long flight."
Aria smooths her silk blouse, composing herself. "Coffee. Yes. And then I see Bruno." She sweeps past us toward the kitchen, Carmela following in her wake.
Pietro exhales slowly. "You're lucky she didn't use her shoe." He claps my shoulder, squeezing once before letting go. "Valentino. Good to see you, cousin."
They embrace briefly. The way men in our world do. One arm, three pats on the back, done. Valentino's gaze finds mine over Pietro's shoulder.
"Nico." He extends his hand.
I take it. His grip is firm, calloused from years of work he doesn't talk about. Running operations in Sicily means different things than it does here. Older methods. Older loyalties. Valentino bridges both worlds. Traditional enough for the old guard, practical enough for modern business.
"How bad is it?" he asks quietly.
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "Worse than last time. He's... cruel now. Uses it like armor."
Valentino nods slowly. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see the boy who used to sneak me cigarettes when we were teenagers. Before everything went to shit.
"And you?" His dark eyes search my face. "How are you holding up?"
The question catches me off guard. No one asks me that. I'm the one who watches, who calculates, who sees threats before they materialize. I'm not the one who needs checking on.
"Fine," I say automatically.
Valentino's expression says he doesn't believe me. But he doesn't push. That's why we get along. He knows when to leave things alone.
"We should talk later," he says. "Business in Palermo. Some concerns."
"My office. Tonight."
He nods once, then follows the women toward the kitchen.
Aria's return changes things. Bruno's isolation can't hold against her determination. And whatever business Valentino brought from Sicily. It's not good news. His tells are subtle, but I've known him too long.
Something's wrong.
Pietro appears beside me again. "You okay?"
"She's a badass for a woman her age."
"Years of practice on Papa." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "She's scared, Nico. That's all this is. She's terrified of losing another son, and fear makes her..."
"Violent?"
"Passionate." He sighs. "I need you to find that housekeeper. Soon. Mama came here because Giulia can't get on a plane without a person she trusts. They'll leave both the same day and Giulia's absence will be felt even more. She's the only one who can manage this family without bloodshed."
I think of the stack of resumes I haven't touched. The interviews I've been avoiding. The impossible task of finding someone who can navigate our world without flinching.
"I'll handle it."