Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Bruno
The parallel bars are cold under my palms.
I grip them harder. Feel the metal bite into my skin.
Will, my physiotherapist, stands three feet away. Clipboard in hand. Watching me like I'm a science experiment.
"Ready when you are, Mr. Sartori."
I don't answer.
I push.
My arms take my weight. Muscles burning. Shoulders screaming. I lift myself out of the wheelchair. Hang there for a moment. Suspended between the bars like a puppet on strings.
Will makes a note on his clipboard. "Good. Very good. Your upper body strength is—"
"Shut up."
He shuts up.
I lower myself. Slowly. Controlled. My arms shake but they hold. They always hold. Two years of nothing but upper body work. Two years of punishing myself in this gym while everyone else slept.
My arms are not the problem.
My arms never were.
I grip the bars again. Pull myself up. This time I don't stop at hanging.
I put my feet on the ground.
Will steps forward. "Mr. Sartori, I don't think you should—"
"I said shut up."
He freezes.
I focus on my legs. On the signals my brain is sending. Move. Stand. Hold.
For two years, those signals went nowhere. Dead wires. Broken connections. The doctors said I'd never walk again. Said the damage was too severe. Said I should focus on adapting to my new reality.
Fuck my new reality.
I straighten my knees.
My legs shake. Tremble. Threaten to buckle.
But they hold.
One second.
Two.
Three.
I'm standing. Actually standing. My weight on my own two feet for the first time in—
Four seconds.
Five.
The shaking gets worse. My thighs burn like someone's holding a blowtorch to them.
Six.
Seven.
Will's eyes are wide. His clipboard forgotten.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
My left knee starts to give. I grip the bars harder. Force it to lock.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Sweat drips down my face. My jaw aches from clenching.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
I drop back into the wheelchair.
My chest heaves. My arms shake. My legs feel like they've been filled with concrete and set on fire.
But I did it.
Fifteen seconds.
Will stares at me. His mouth opens. Closes.
"Don't," I say before he can speak. "Don't say a word. Don't write it down. Don't tell anyone."
"But Mr. Sartori, this is incredible progress. If the doctors knew—"
"The doctors don't need to know." I wheel myself to the water bottle on the bench. Take a long drink. "No one needs to know."
"I don't understand. This is good news. This means—"
"It means nothing." I set the bottle down. Hard. "Not yet."
Will's confusion is written all over his face. He doesn't get it. How could he? He's never had everything stripped away. Never had to rebuild himself from nothing while the whole world watched and waited for him to fail.
I started at two seconds.
Two fucking seconds of standing before my legs gave out. Two seconds that felt like a miracle and a curse at the same time. Because two seconds wasn't walking. Two seconds wasn't leading. Two seconds was just enough to remind me of everything I'd lost.
But two became three. Three became five. Five became ten.
Now fifteen.
Tomorrow I get married.
Tomorrow I wheel myself down an aisle to meet a woman I've never seen.
I grip the wheels of my chair. The rubber is worn smooth from use. From the thousands of times I've pushed myself through these halls. Through this compound. Through this life I never asked for.
I close my eyes.
And I imagine it.
Walking.
Not shuffling. Not stumbling. Not clinging to bars or walls or the arms of men who pity me.
Walking.
Striding into a room and watching people's faces change. Watching the pity drain away. Watching fear replace it. The kind of fear I used to command without thinking.
I imagine walking into Pietro's study and taking the chair that should be mine. The Don's chair. My father's chair.
I imagine walking through enemy territory. Walking into negotiations. Walking out of ambushes.
Walking.
The word echoes in my skull like a heartbeat. Like oxygen. Like the only thing keeping me alive.
I need to walk the way a drowning man needs air. The way a fish on land gasps and thrashes and fights for one more second of life.
I need it.
And I will have it.
Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.
I open my eyes. Will is still standing there. Still watching me with that mixture of awe and confusion.
"Same time tomorrow," I tell him. "After the ceremony."
"You want to rehab on your wedding day?"
"I want to rehab every day." I wheel toward the door. "Until I don't need this chair anymore."
"Mr. Sartori—"
I stop. Don't turn around.
"The progress you're making," Will says carefully. "It's remarkable. But you need to be patient. Recovery like this takes—"
"I've been patient for two years." My voice is flat. Cold. "I'm done being patient. Don't say that to no one. Or I'll kill you."
I push through the door.
The hallway stretches before me. Long. Empty. Mocking.
Someday I'll walk down this hall.
Someday soon.
Antonella
The suitcase lies open on my bed like a wound.
I stare at it. At the empty space waiting to be filled with pieces of my life. With everything I own that's worth taking to a stranger's house.
A stranger's bed.
I push that thought away. Focus on the task.
Clothes first.
I open my closet. The hangers scrape against the rod as I push through dresses I bought years ago. Before Mama got sick. Before Papa gambled away our future. Before I became the person who held this family together with nothing but stubbornness and prayer.
The green dress goes in. Mama always said it brought out my eyes.
The black one. Simple. Elegant. Good for funerals and meetings with dangerous men.
I pause at the red dress. Bought it for my twenty-first birthday. Never wore it. Never had anywhere to go.
It goes in the suitcase anyway.
Jeans. Sweaters. Blouses. I fold each piece carefully. Precisely. Like if I fold them perfectly enough, my life will somehow make sense.
It doesn't work.
The jewelry box sits on my dresser. Small. Wooden. Mama's initials carved into the lid. I open it and the hinges creak. Inside, her pearls rest on faded velvet. Her wedding ring. The gold earrings Papa gave her on their tenth anniversary.
I touch the pearls. Cool against my fingertips.
"I'm getting married, Mama," I whisper. "To a man I've never met. To save a family you worked so hard to build."
The pearls don't answer.
I wrap them in a silk scarf and tuck them into the corner of my suitcase.
The bathroom is next. I gather my skincare bottles. The expensive moisturizer I splurged on last year. The makeup I rarely wear because who has time for mascara when you're juggling creditors and grocery lists and a father who can't stop destroying everything he touches?
I pack it all. Every bottle. Every tube. Every small luxury I allowed myself in a life that offered so few.
A knock at my door.
"It's open."
Oliver walks in. His dark hair is messy. His eyes are soft with worry. He's wearing the leather jacket I bought him for his birthday three years ago.
"Hey." He stops in the doorway. Takes in the suitcase. The piles of clothes. The half-empty closet. "You need help?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
I fold a sweater. Set it in the suitcase. "I'm packing. It's not complicated."
Oliver crosses the room. Sits on the edge of my bed. Right next to the suitcase. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something woodsy. Familiar. Safe.
"How are you?" he asks.
"Fine."
"Nell."
I stop folding. Look at him.
His brown eyes hold mine. No judgment. No pity. Just Oliver. My best friend since third grade. The only person in this world who knows every ugly, broken piece of me and loves me anyway.
"I'm terrified," I admit. "I'm marrying a man I've never seen. Moving into a house I've never visited. Becoming part of a family that could kill mine with a phone call."
Oliver nods. "That's fair."
"I don't even know what he looks like. I don't know if he's kind or cruel. I don't know if he'll—" I stop. Swallow. "I don't know anything."
"Have you tried looking him up? Social media? News articles?"
"The Sartoris don't exactly have Instagram accounts."
"Fair point." Oliver reaches out. Takes my hand. His palm is warm. Steady. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
"You could run. I have savings. We could disappear. Start over somewhere—"
"And leave Gianna? Claudio? Papa?" I shake my head. "I can't. You know I can't."
Oliver's jaw tightens. He wants to argue. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense. But he knows me too well. Knows that once I've made a decision, nothing changes my mind.
"Then I'll be here," he says. "Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. You call me, and I'll come."
"Oliver—"
"I mean it, Nell. I don't care who your husband is. I don't care how powerful his family is. You're my family. You always have been."
My throat tightens. I squeeze his hand.
"Thank you."
He squeezes back.
The door opens again.
Gianna stands in the doorway. Her blonde hair hangs limp around her face. Her eyes are red. Swollen. She's been crying.
My heart cracks.
"Gi." I release Oliver's hand. Step toward her. "What's wrong?"
She doesn't answer. Just stands there. Looking at the suitcase. At the clothes. At the evidence of my departure.
"You're really leaving," she whispers.
"I have to."
Tears spill down her cheeks. She looks so young. Nineteen years old and still so innocent. Still believing the world is fair. That good things happen to good people.
I used to believe that too.
"I don't want you to go," she says.
"I know."
"I don't want you to marry some stranger."
"I know."
"I want everything to go back to how it was. Before Mama died. Before Papa—" She stops. Chokes on a sob.
I pull her into my arms. Hold her tight. Feel her shoulders shake against my chest.
Over her head, I meet Oliver's eyes.
He looks as helpless as I feel.
"Okay," Oliver says. He stands up. Claps his hands together. "I have an idea."
Gianna pulls back from my arms. Wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. "What?"
"Go get dressed."
She blinks at him. "What?"
"Dressed. You know. Clothes that aren't pajamas." He gestures at her oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. "Something cute. We're going out."
"Out where?" I ask.
"The movies." Oliver grins. That easy, charming smile that's gotten him out of trouble since we were kids. "There's a new horror film playing at the theater on Fifth. The one with the possessed doll. Gianna's been talking about it for weeks."
Gianna's eyes widen. "The Dollmaker sequel?"
"That's the one."
"I've been dying to see it." She looks at me. Then back at Oliver. "But Nell's packing. And tomorrow is—"
"Tomorrow is tomorrow," Oliver cuts in. "Tonight, we're watching a creepy doll murder people for two hours. Then we're getting ice cream."
"Oliver." I shake my head. "I can't. I have to finish packing. And I need to—"
"You need to what?" He raises an eyebrow. "Fold more sweaters? Stare at your suitcase and spiral into panic?"
"I wasn't spiraling."
"You were absolutely spiraling."
"I was organizing."
"Same thing." He points at Gianna. "Go. Get dressed. I'll wait in the car."
Gianna hesitates. Looks at me.
I want to say no. I want to tell them both that I have responsibilities. That I can't waste time on movies and ice cream when my entire life is about to change. When everything I know is about to disappear.
But Gianna's eyes are still red. Still swollen. And Oliver is looking at me with that expression he gets when he knows I'm about to do something stupid like sacrifice my own happiness for everyone else's.
"Fine," I say.
Gianna's face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. Go get dressed."
She throws her arms around me. Squeezes tight. "Thank you, Nell. Thank you."
Then she's gone. Running down the hallway to her room. Her footsteps echo on the hardwood floors.
Oliver watches her go. Then turns back to me.
"You're a good sister," he says.
"I'm a tired sister."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." He picks up his jacket from where he tossed it on my bed. Shrugs it on. "I'll be in the car. Take your time."
"Oliver."
He stops at the door. Looks back.
I take a breath. "Tomorrow. The wedding."
His expression shifts. Softens.
"I want you there," I say. "But I don't know if you want to be part of a mobster wedding."
"I'll be there," he says.
"You don't have to. I know it's dangerous. I know the Sartoris are—"
"Nell." He crosses back to me. Takes my hands in his.
"I've been your best friend for years. I was there when you broke your arm falling off the monkey bars.
I was there when your mom got diagnosed.
I was there when she died. I was there through every single terrible thing your father has put you through. "
His grip tightens.
"You think I'm going to miss it because some mobsters might give me dirty looks?" He shakes his head. "I'll be there. Front row. Probably crying. Definitely judging the flower arrangements."
A laugh escapes me. Wet. Broken. "There won't be flower arrangements. They said it's small. Family only."
"Then I'll judge the lack of flower arrangements." He pulls me into a hug. Holds me close. "You're not alone in this, Nell. You never have been. You never will be."
I press my face into his shoulder. Let myself feel, just for a moment, like everything might be okay.
It won't be. I know that.
But right now, in this moment, with Oliver's arms around me and Gianna's excited footsteps echoing down the hall, I can pretend.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Always." He pulls back. Wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. "Now go put on something that isn't covered in lint from your sweaters. We have a possessed doll to watch."
I laugh again. Stronger this time.
"Give me ten minutes."
"I'll give you fifteen. But only because I love you."