Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kristen
The pillow finally moulds to my head at eleven-forty-seven. Sleep hovers just out of reach, teasing me with that heavy-limbed feeling that never quite tips into unconsciousness.
My phone buzzes.
Of course.
I grab it without looking, already knowing.
"Mom?"
"Kristen." Her voice sounds like sandpaper dragged across gravel. "I can't come tomorrow."
I sit up so fast my head spins. "What? Why?"
"I'm sick." A wet cough punctuates the statement. "Started this afternoon. Fever, chills, the works. I can barely get off the couch."
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"Mom, I have work tomorrow." I keep my voice low, glancing at Lily's sleeping form in the bed across the room. "You know daycare closes at three."
"I'm sorry, honey. I really am." Another cough. "But I can barely stand. I'd be no use to Lily anyway."
She's not wrong. A sick grandmother means a sick Lily in approximately forty-eight hours, and I cannot afford that spiral. But the alternative—
"Can you ask someone else?" Mom suggests. "A friend? A neighbour?"
What friends? Jack made sure those disappeared years ago. And my neighbours? One sells drugs out of apartment 2C, and the other is an eighty-year-old woman who can't hear her own doorbell.
"I'll figure it out," I say, because what else can I say?
"Maybe Jack could—"
"Goodnight, Mom."
I hang up before she finishes that sentence. The audacity. The absolute audacity of suggesting Jack as a solution to anything.
I stare at my phone. The screen glows accusingly in the dark, waiting for me to solve this unsolvable problem.
Options. I need options.
Daycare: closes at three, no exceptions, no flexibility. I already asked.
Neighbours: see previous assessment re: drug dealer and deaf octogenarian.
Friends: nonexistent.
Which leaves...
Asking for time off from my brand-new job.
My stomach twists. I've been there less than two weeks.
I can't lose this job.
But I can't leave my four-year-old stranded at daycare either.
The phone feels heavy in my hand. I pull up Nico's contact.
I'm so sorry for the late message. I may need to take tomorrow off. Personal emergency.
My thumb hovers over send.
This is humiliating. I'm already asking for favours. He's going to think I'm unreliable. Flaky. Taking advantage of his family's generosity.
Just like Jack always said you would.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The read receipt appears almost immediately.
11:52 PM - Read
Three dots appear.
Why?
One word. No greeting, no acknowledgment of the hour. Just why, like I owe him an explanation.
My jaw tightens.
It's personal, I type back.
That's not an answer.
It's the only one you're getting.
I watch those three dots dance for what feels like an eternity. My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. This is where I get fired via text message at midnight because I couldn't keep my mouth shut.
Try again.
Excuse me?
You asked for time off. I asked why. "Personal" tells me nothing. Is someone hurt? Sick? In danger?
I want to throw my phone across the room. I want to tell him that my childcare situation is none of his business. That his single-word interrogation style is infuriating.
Instead, I type: My mother was supposed to watch Lily tomorrow. She's sick. Daycare closes at 3. My shift ends at 6. I don't have other options.
Send.
The dots appear immediately.
How many days?
I don't know. Until she's better? A few days, maybe?
Bring her.
I blink at my screen.
What?
Bring Lily. To the compound. Tomorrow.
I can't bring my daughter to work.
You can if I say you can. Problem solved.
I stare at the screen until my eyes burn.
Problem solved.
Like it's that simple.
But my thumbs don't type a response. Don't argue. Don't thank him.
I just set the phone face-down on my nightstand and let the relief wash over me like a warm bath.
Tomorrow is handled.
I exhale slowly, listening to Lily's soft breathing across the room. She's sprawled across her little bed like a starfish, one arm dangling off the edge, Bunbun clutched against her chest. Peaceful. Oblivious to the chaos her mother navigates just to keep them afloat.
Sleep pulls at me now, finally, the anxiety loosening its grip on my chest.
Tonight Aria leaves for Sicily.
These past few days, I've barely seen her. She's spent most of her time in Bruno's wing—the forbidden zone Giulia warned me about on day one. The few times our paths crossed, Aria looked tired. Worn thin in a way that expensive moisturiser can't fix.
I understand that better than I'd like to admit.
But despite the heavy things lurking in the corners of this job, the truth is...
I love it.
I love the rhythm of the compound. The way morning light floods through those ridiculous floor-to-ceiling windows. The satisfaction of fresh flowers in every room, linens that smell like lavender, a kitchen that actually works instead of fighting me at every turn.
I love that Giulia left detailed notes about everyone's preferences, she knew I'd need a roadmap to navigate this strange family.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
Tomorrow is Friday.
Friday.
The word glitters in my mind like something precious. Because tomorrow isn't just the end of the work week. Tomorrow is my second paycheck.
Three thousand dollars.
The number still doesn't feel real. In two weeks, I'll have earned more than I made in two months of catering gigs and temp work combined. Enough to make this month's payment. Enough for groceries that aren't ramen and peanut butter sandwiches. Enough for—
The playground.
The plan crystallises, sharp and sweet. There's a park about twenty minutes from our apartment. Nice neighbourhood, actual grass instead of concrete, a coffee shop right across the street with outdoor seating where I can watch Lily play.
I've walked past it dozens of times. Watched other mothers sit with their lattes while their kids climbed and swung and screamed with joy. Told myself someday while counting pennies for bus fare.
Tomorrow, someday becomes today.
I'm going to buy an overpriced coffee. Maybe a pastry. Something with chocolate that I don't have to share—though I absolutely will share because Lily's puppy eyes are weapons of mass destruction.
And Saturday...
Saturday, we're going to the zoo.
Lily's been asking for months. Years, maybe. Ever since she saw a nature documentary about penguins and decided they were her "best animal friends." I've made a hundred excuses. Maybe next month, baby. When Mommy has more money. When things settle down.
Things never settled down. Money never appeared. And my daughter learned to stop asking.
But this Saturday, we're going. I've already looked up ticket prices. Mapped out the route. Planned which exhibits to hit first based on Lily's animal ranking system, which changes daily but always includes penguins in the top three.
We're going to eat overpriced hot dogs and buy a stuffed penguin from the gift shop and take a hundred photos that I'll actually get printed instead of letting them rot in my phone's memory.
This is what normal feels like, I think. This is what I've been fighting for.
The tears catch me off guard. Hot and sudden, sliding down my temples into my hair.
Not sad tears. Not this time.
These are the other kind. The ones that come when you've been holding your breath so long you forgot you were drowning, and suddenly your head breaks the surface.
I can breathe.
Nico
The compound sounds different with a child in it.
I notice it the moment I step out of my office at noon. Laughter. Small, bright, completely out of place in these halls.
Kristen never texted back last night. After I told her to bring Lily, nothing. Radio silence. I stared at those messages for twenty minutes before I threw my phone across the room.
Pathetic.
I've been avoiding her all morning. Easy enough when she's been doing the same. After yesterday we've developed an unspoken agreement. She takes the east wing. I take the west. We don't cross paths.
It's efficient and logical.
I hate it.
The laughter comes again, echoing from the corridor that leads to Bruno's wing. My blood runs cold.
Bruno's wing.
Where my brother sits in his wheelchair and sharpens his cruelty like a blade, waiting for someone stupid enough to wander close.
I move fast, feet silent on the floor. Tactical awareness kicks in calculating how quickly I can get between Bruno and a four-year-old if he decides to—
I stop dead.
Through the partially open door, I see them. Bruno's wheelchair is angled toward the window, afternoon light cutting across his sharp features. And sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, clutching one of her stuffed rabbits, is Lily.
She's laughing.
Not the nervous giggle of a child sensing danger. Real laughter, the kind that makes her whole body shake.
"No, no, no." Bruno's voice is low, but it's missing the knife-edge I've grown used to. "You have to hold it like this. Otherwise Sir Floppington falls over."
"But he wants to fall over," Lily insists. "He's doing a trick."
"What trick?"
"A secret trick."
Bruno makes a sound. It takes me a moment to recognize it.
He's laughing too.
Soft. Almost rusty, like machinery that hasn't been used in years. But there. Unmistakable.
What the hell?
I press my back against the wall, staying out of sight. My mind races through explanations and finds none. This is Bruno. Bruno who's spent months building walls so high and vicious that even I can't scale them anymore.
And he's playing with a child's stuffed rabbit.
"The secret trick," Bruno says slowly, "is falling over?"
"Dramatically." Lily corrects him with the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to someone very stupid. "Like in movies."
"I see." A pause. "Show me."
Through the crack in the door, I watch Lily make the rabbit flop sideways with exaggerated flair. Bruno nods solemnly, like she's just demonstrated a complex tactical maneuver.
"Better," he says. "But the ears need more—" He waves his hand vaguely.
"More whoosh?"
"Exactly."
Something cracks in my chest. A hairline fracture in the wall I've built around every memory of who Bruno used to be. Before the wedding. Before the wheelchair. Before the bullet that took his legs and left behind something colder.
He's still in there.
Under all that rage and cruelty and viciousness—my brother is still in there.
Footsteps behind me. I turn to find Kristen approaching, her face pale, eyes wide with panic. She sees me and stops short, opening her mouth to speak.
I shake my head once. Wait.
She freezes.
Inside the room, Lily chatters on about Sir Floppington's adventures. Bruno listens.
Then Kristen's shoe squeaks on the floor.
Bruno's head snaps toward the sound. The transformation is instantaneous. Warmth draining from his face like water through sand, replaced by that familiar cold mask.
Kristen pushes past me before I can stop her.
"Mr. Sartori, I'm so sorry." The words tumble out fast, frantic. "Lily wandered off while I was helping Vittoria with the—she knows she's not supposed to—I'll get her out of your way immediately."
She reaches for Lily's hand, pulling the girl up with gentle urgency.
"Mama, I was showing Bruno my trick—"
"I know, baby. But we need to let Mr. Sartori rest."
I step into the doorway. Kristen's eyes meet mine for a split second before she's gone, Lily's small hand clutched in hers, footsteps rapid against the marble.
Silence settles.
Bruno doesn't look at me. His jaw is tight, hands gripping the wheels of his chair.
"This isn't a daycare, Nico." His voice is ice. "Control your staff or I will."
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. Say nothing.
"Did you hear me?" Bruno wheels around to face me, and there it is—the rage, the cruelty, the mask he wears like armor. "Keep that woman and her child out of my wing."
I study him. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his eyes won't quite meet mine. The slight tremor in his hands.
Pain, I realize. Not physical—though there's that too. Emotional. He let someone in for five minutes, and now he's terrified I saw.
I could say something. Could tell him I watched. Could push, prod, force him to acknowledge what we both know—that he's not as far gone as he wants everyone to believe.
But I've spent my entire life reading people. Knowing when to press and when to wait.
Bruno isn't ready.
"I'll talk to her," I say instead. Neutral. Giving him nothing.
His eyes narrow, searching my face for judgment or pity. Finding neither, something in him eases—just slightly.
"See that you do."
I nod once and turn to leave.
I walk away, leaving my brother alone with whatever ghosts haunt him. Behind me, I hear the wheels of his chair turning toward the window again.