Chapter 12 #2
My grandmother's face keeps appearing in my mind. Her hands, gnarled and thin, gripping the wheelchair's armrests. Her voice, slurred but determined, telling me stories about the old country while I brushed her hair.
And then my mother. Always my mother.
She spent six years caring for Nonna. Bathing her, feeding her, changing her sheets in the middle of the night. Never complaining. Never asking for help from anyone except me.
I was sixteen when Nonna died. Eighteen when Mama followed.
The cancer took her fast. Three months from diagnosis to funeral. The doctors said it was aggressive, that there was nothing anyone could have done. But I know the truth. Six years of caregiving wore her down. Hollowed her out. Left nothing for the disease to fight.
My throat tightens.
I didn't need this reminder. Not today. Not when I'm already drowning in a new life I didn't choose.
Bruno wheels beside me, silent. His presence should feel oppressive. But somehow, having him here makes the memories less sharp.
I'm not alone.
That's all I wanted when I invited him. Company. A warm body nearby. Someone to fill the silence so my thoughts don't consume me.
I don't care if he likes me. I don't care if he ever speaks to me again after today. I just need to not be alone right now.
"These are beautiful." I gesture toward a bush of deep crimson roses, forcing brightness into my voice. "Did your family plant them?"
"My mother." Bruno's voice is rough. "Years ago. Before I was born."
"She has good taste."
He doesn't respond.
We walk—well, I walk and he wheels—deeper into the garden. The path curves around a small fountain, water trickling softly over stone. Benches line the edges, wrought iron with cushions that look new.
I sit on one of the benches. Bruno stops his chair beside me, angled so we're almost facing each other.
The silence stretches.
I should let it be. Should sit here quietly and enjoy the sunshine and the roses and the fact that I'm not locked in my room crying.
But the memories are still there. Nonna's face. Mama's hands. The smell of the hospital room where I watched her take her last breath.
I need distraction. I need conversation. I need something—anything—to pull me out of my own head.
"How old are you?"
Bruno turns to look at me. His dark eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his features.
"What?"
"Your age." I keep my voice light, casual. Like this is a normal question between a husband and wife. "I don't know how old you are."
He stares at me for a long moment. The confusion deepens, mixing with something else. Disbelief, maybe. Or frustration.
"You don't know?"
"No." I shrug, pulling my sweater tighter around myself. "I don't know anything about you, really."
His jaw works. I watch the muscle flex beneath his skin, watch his hands grip the armrests of his chair.
"Forty," he says finally. "I'm forty."
Forty. Nineteen years older than me.
I process this information, turning it over in my mind. He doesn't look forty. The lines around his eyes could belong to a man in his thirties. But there's something in his expression—a weariness, a weight—that speaks to decades of experience I can't imagine.
"When's your birthday?"
"March." The word comes out clipped. "March fifteenth."
"The Ides of March." I smile slightly. "Like Caesar."
Something shifts in his expression. The confusion fades, replaced by... interest? Surprise?
"You know your Roman history."
"I know my Shakespeare." I lean back against the bench, letting the sun warm my face. "Julius Caesar was required reading in high school. 'Beware the Ides of March' and all that."
Bruno is quiet for a moment. When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"What else don't you know?" His voice is different now. Softer. Almost curious.
"Everything." I meet his gaze directly. "I know your name is Bruno Sartori. I know you're in a wheelchair. I know your family is powerful and dangerous and that my father owed you money. That's it."
"That's it."
"That's it." I spread my hands. "No one told me anything else. Not your age, not your birthday, not your favorite color or what you like to eat for breakfast or whether you prefer coffee or tea."
"Coffee." The word comes out automatically, like he didn't mean to say it.
"See?" I smile at him. "Now I know one more thing."
He doesn't smile back. But something in his posture changes. The rigid tension in his shoulders eases slightly. His grip on the armrests loosens.
"What about you?" he asks.
"What about me?"
"Your age. Your birthday." He pauses. "Coffee or tea."
"Twenty-one. September third. And coffee, but only with cream and sugar. I know that's probably sacrilege to an Italian family, but I can't drink it black."
The corner of his mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's close.
"Giulia makes excellent coffee," he says. "She'll add whatever you want."
"Good to know."
We sit in silence again, but it's different now. Less heavy. The memories of Nonna and Mama are still there, lurking at the edges of my mind, but they're quieter. Easier to ignore.
Bruno is watching the roses. His profile is sharp against the green of the hedges—strong nose, defined jaw, dark hair that curls slightly at his temples. He's handsome, I realize. Not in the soft, boyish way of the men I dated in college. Something harder. More dangerous.
"Why did you ask me to come with you?"
His question catches me off guard.
"I told you." I keep my voice steady. "I hate walking alone."
"That's not the real reason."
I look at him.
"Maybe I just wanted company," I say finally. "Is that so hard to believe?"