Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Nico
Ihaven't slept. Not really. A few hours of staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment my mother's face turned purple. The way her hands clawed at her throat.
Lucky.
That's what Dr. Marchetti said when he finished examining her last night. "She's lucky. The obstruction cleared completely. No damage to her throat or airway. Just some bruising and soreness for a few days."
Lucky. As if luck had anything to do with it.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on knees, head in my hands. My fingers dig into my scalp hard enough to hurt. Good. I deserve worse.
I froze.
The man who has pulled bullets from flesh, who has stopped arterial bleeding with nothing but a belt and steady hands.
The same man who once kept a soldato alive for forty-five minutes until the doc arrived, applying pressure to three separate gunshot wounds while giving orders to secure the perimeter.
That man watched his mother choke and froze.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
I grab it, ready to hurl it against the wall, but the name on the screen stops me.
Pietro: Family meeting. Kitchen. 20 minutes.
I type back a single letter. K.
Then I sit there for another five minutes.
The moment it happened, my brain did what it always does. Calculated. Assessed. Heimlich maneuver. Get behind her. Fist above navel. Quick upward thrusts. I knew exactly what to do. I've known since I was sixteen and Giuseppe made all of us take emergency medical training.
But my body wouldn't move.
Because when you live with death as a constant companion your brain starts to assume the worst. Every emergency becomes fatal. Every crisis becomes a corpse.
I was already calculating how to tell Pietro. Already composing the words in my head. She's gone. I couldn't save her. I'm sorry.
Pathetic.
And then that woman. Kristen.
"I've got it!"
Three words. And suddenly the weight I couldn't carry was lifted from my hands.
She moved like she'd done it a thousand times. Confident. Efficient. No hesitation. While I stood there like a fucking statue, she wrapped her arms around my mother and acted.
I push off the bed and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells espresso and warm bread. Giulia must have gotten up early to bake.
Some things never change.
Pietro sits at the head of the table, tablet propped against a crystal vase. Aria occupies the chair to his right, both hands wrapped around a cup.
"Nico." Aria sets down her cup. "Sit. I need to talk to you."
I pull out a chair across from her and sit. "How's your throat?"
"Sore." She waves a dismissive hand. "Dr. Marchetti gave me something for the swelling. I'll survive."
Barely. The word lodges in my chest like a splinter.
Pietro glances up from his tablet. "You look like shit."
"Thank you. Very helpful."
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Define sleep."
He shakes his head and returns to his reading. Classic Pietro. Ask a question, move on before the answer matters.
Aria reaches across the table and touches my hand. Her fingers are papery-thin. When did her skin get so fragile? When did she start looking old?
"Stop that," she says.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever you're doing in that head of yours. I can see you spiraling." Her grip tightens. "I'm fine. Because of that woman. I need you to find her," Aria says.
I blink. "What?"
"The woman. The one who saved my life." She releases my hand and sits back, straightening in her chair like she's about to deliver a verdict. "I need you to find her. We have to thank her properly."
"I already—"
"A dinner," Aria continues, steamrolling right over me. "Here. At the compound. We'll invite her and her family. Give her money. Whatever she needs. A woman like that, working catering jobs..." She shakes her head. "She deserves more."
Pietro looks up again. Interest sparks in his dark eyes. "You want to bring a stranger into the compound?"
"She's not a stranger. She saved my life."
"She's a civilian."
"She's a hero." Aria's voice sharpens. "And we will treat her like one. This family knows how to show gratitude. Your father would have done the same."
The Giuseppe card. Of course. She always plays it when she wants to end an argument.
Pietro's jaw tightens, but he nods. "Fine. Nico can handle the arrangements."
Both of them turn to look at me.
I exhale through my nose. "I've already got Liam looking into her. He should have information by this afternoon."
Aria's eyebrows rise. "You anticipated this?"
"I anticipated something." I reach for the espresso pot and pour myself a cup. "I figured we'd want to send her a thank-you gift. Maybe arrange a dinner at one of Lorenzo's restaurants. Something private."
"No." Aria shakes her head firmly. "Here. In this house. At our table."
"Mamma—"
"Every member of this family will be present," she continues.
"Pietro. Nora. Lorenzo. Sophia. Vittoria.
Bruno, if he's able. Even Valentino, since he's still in town.
" She ticks them off on her fingers like she's planning a military operation.
"We will sit down together and thank this woman for giving me another day with my children. "
Her voice cracks on the last word. Just slightly. Just enough.
Fuck.
I take a long sip of espresso.
"Fine," I say. "I'll arrange it."
Aria nods, satisfied. "Good. And Nico?"
"Yeah?"
"Make sure she feels welcome. Not overwhelmed." She pauses. Be gentle with her. She did a brave thing. She doesn't need you interrogating her over dinner."
Pietro snorts. Actually snorts. The bastard.
"I don't interrogate people over dinner."
"You interrogate people over everything," Pietro says without looking up from his tablet. "It's your default setting."
"I just ask questions."
"Not when you ask them like a prosecutor building a case."
Aria pats my hand again. "Just be nice, tesoro. That's all I'm asking."
Be nice. Two words I've never been particularly good at.
I stand, pushing back from the table. "I'll let you know when Liam has the information. We can discuss timing then."
"Tomorrow," Aria says.
I stop. "What?"
"The dinner. Tomorrow night." She picks up her espresso cup and takes a delicate sip. "I'm not getting any younger, and I'd like to thank the woman who ensured I get a few more years."
Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours to vet a complete stranger, run a background check deep enough, coordinate schedules for half a dozen family members, and somehow convince a woman who fled from me like I was the devil himself to walk into a mafia compound for dinner.
Piece of cake.
I don't argue. There's no point. When Aria Sartori makes up her mind, the rest of us just fall in line.
"Tomorrow," I repeat. "I'll make it happen."
She smiles.
I turn and walk out before she can see my face.
A thank-you card. A check. That's all this needed to be.
But no. We're Sartoris. We do nothing small. Nothing simple.
We invite strangers into our home and pretend we're not monsters.
My phone buzzes. Liam.
Liam: Got a hit on your mystery woman. Kristen Thomas. 26. Single mother. One daughter, age 4. Currently employed at Premier Catering Services. Lives in Pilsen. Want the full report?
I type back without breaking stride.
Everything. Address. Employment history. Financial records. Family. I want to know what she eats for breakfast.
Kristen
The pasta water boils over.
Of course it does.
I lunge for the pot, grabbing the handle without thinking, and hiss when heat bites into my palm. Yanking my hand back, I use a dish towel to slide the pot off the burner, watching starchy water sizzle against the ancient coils.
"Mommy, you okay?" Lily's voice floats in from the living room where she's set up camp with her coloring books.
"Fine, baby. Just fighting with dinner."
And losing. Story of my life.
I run cold water over my palm, watching the skin turn pink. Not burned. Just stupid. I've been distracted all day, replaying last night on a loop I can't seem to stop.
The woman choking. My body moving before my brain caught up. The Heimlich. The shrimp flying out like some gross party trick.
I shut off the water.
I drain the pasta and dump it into the pot of sauce I'd been nursing for the last hour. Jarred marinara stretched with canned tomatoes and whatever dried herbs I could scrounge from the back of the cabinet. Not exactly gourmet, but Lily doesn't know the difference.
Yet.
The guilt hits like it always does. My daughter deserves homemade sauce from scratch. Fresh vegetables. Organic everything. Instead, she gets a mother who just lost her third job this year.
I stir the pasta.
Georgia's voice still echoes in my head from this morning's voicemail. "Kristen, I don't know what happened last night, but you can't just leave in the middle of a shift. I'm sorry, but we have to let you go."
I didn't even try to explain. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, I saved a woman's life and then got spooked by her son's, so I ran away like a scared little girl.
Jack would have a field day with this one.
Pathetic, his voice whispers in my head. Can't even keep a job serving drinks. What made you think you could ever be a doctor?
I grip the spoon tighter.
Once upon a time, I was going to be somebody. Had the grades, the drive, the acceptance letter to Northwestern's pre-med program sitting on my desk. Then Jack happened. And suddenly I was too stupid to handle medical school. Too scattered. Too much.
Funny how being with someone can convince you every dream you ever had was a delusion.
But I never stopped learning. Couldn't. Even when Jack mocked the medical journals I read on my phone.
Even when he "accidentally" threw away my anatomy textbook.
I took online courses when he was at work.
Watched surgery videos while Lily napped.
Kept a secret folder of certifications. First aid, CPR, basic life support.