Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bruno
Iknock on Antonella's door.
Pietro's message came ten minutes ago. Everyone's here.
Footsteps approach from inside. The door swings open.
Antonella stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame. She's wearing a deep pink dress that hugs her curves and falls just below her knees. Her blonde hair is down, soft waves framing her face.
"You knocked this time." Her lips curve into a smile. "I'm impressed."
I don't respond.
I can't.
My eyes move over her without permission. The way the fabric clings to her waist. The swell of her breasts beneath the neckline.
She looks... fuck.
She looks incredible.
"Bruno?" Her smile fades. "Is something wrong?"
I force my gaze back to her face. Force my expression into something neutral.
"We need to talk before we go down."
She tilts her head. "About what?"
"The guests." I grip my armrests, grounding myself. "They're going to ask questions. About us. How we met, how long we've been together."
"Ah." She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. The movement pushes her breasts up slightly. I look away. "And what should I tell them?"
"Eighteen months." The number comes out rough. "We've been together eighteen months."
"Eighteen months." She repeats it slowly, testing the words. "Why eighteen months?"
"Because you're too young for anything longer." I meet her eyes. "And I was too busy being in a coma for the six months before that."
The words hang in the air between us.
Antonella's expression shifts. The playful smile disappears.
"A coma," she says quietly. "I didn't know."
"No one told you that either?"
"No." She shakes her head. "They told me nothing. Just that you were... that you had an accident."
An accident. That's one way to describe being shot.
I don't say any of this.
"Eighteen months," I repeat instead. "That's the story. We met through family connections. Started seeing each other quietly. Decided to make it official."
Antonella is quiet for a moment. Her green eyes study my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Then she tilts her head.
"A coma," she says again. "For six months."
"Yes."
"Did it feel like sleeping?" She kneels her head, thinking. A small crease forms between her brows. "Like you rested for your entire life?"
The question catches me off guard.
I stare at her.
No one has ever asked me that.
A sound escapes my throat.
It takes me a moment to realize I'm laughing.
The sound is rusty, unfamiliar. I haven't laughed in... I don't know how long. Months. Maybe years. The muscles in my face feel strange, like they've forgotten how to form this expression.
Antonella's eyes widen. Her lips part slightly.
I catch myself. Force the laughter down. Smooth my expression back into something controlled.
"They're waiting for us," I say. My voice comes out rougher than intended.
But Antonella is smiling now.
"Let's go then." She steps out of her room and closes the door behind her. "Husband."
The word should sound mocking. It did when she texted it last night, dripping with sarcasm.
But now...
I don't know what to do with that.
I wheel forward, and she falls into step beside me.
The hallway stretches ahead of us. Voices drift from the living room—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses.
My chest tightens.
I haven't done this in two years. Haven't faced a room full of people since before the shooting. Family dinners are one thing. Controlled. Predictable. But this...
Twenty people. Maybe more. Business associates. Family friends. People who knew me before.
People who will see what I've become.
My hands grip the wheels harder. The rubber bites into my palms.
"Bruno?"
Antonella's voice cuts through the noise in my head. I realize I've stopped moving.
"I'm fine." The words come out clipped.
She doesn't argue. Doesn't push. Just waits.
I force my hands to move. Force the chair forward.
We reach the entrance to the living room.
The conversation dies.
Their faces turn toward us. My vision narrows to the immediate. Pietro near the fireplace, Nico by the bar, Lorenzo talking to a man I recognize from the shipping business.
Everyone is staring.
At me.
At the wheelchair.
Pietro steps forward, his smile warm and practiced. "Bruno. Antonella." He gestures toward the room. "Everyone's been waiting to meet the happy couple."
Happy couple. The words taste like ash.
I wheel further into the room. Antonella stays beside me, her hand brushing my shoulder briefly before falling away.
The touch grounds me. I don't know why.
"Thank you all for coming." My voice sounds steady. Good. "I'd like to introduce my wife, Antonella."
Antonella smiles. The expression transforms her face.
"It's wonderful to meet everyone," she says. "Bruno has told me so much about you all."
A lie. A perfect, seamless lie.
People move toward us. Handshakes. Congratulations.
Marco Benedetti, who runs the construction front. His wife Elena, dripping in diamonds.
I shake hands. Accept congratulations. Introduce Antonella again and again.
Three minutes pass.
I know because I'm counting. Counting the seconds until I can stop talking. Stop performing.
"Bruno, you look well." Marco claps my shoulder. His eyes flick down to the wheelchair, then back up. Too fast. Like he's trying not to look. "Marriage agrees with you."
"Thank you."
"And such a beautiful bride." He turns to Antonella, taking her hand. "You're a lucky man, Bruno."
Lucky. The word lodges in my throat like broken glass.
I nod. Say nothing.
The conversation moves on. Marco drifts toward the bar. Elena follows, whispering something to her husband that makes him glance back at me.
At the wheelchair.
My skin prickles.
I scan the room. Catch fragments of conversation.
"—such a shame, he was always so—"
"—heard he can't even—"
The words blur together. Maybe they're not even talking about me. Maybe I'm imagining it.
But I can feel their eyes. Feel the weight of their pity pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Poor Bruno. Crippled Bruno.
My hands shake. I grip the armrests to hide it.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But my chest is tight. Too tight. The room feels smaller than it did a moment ago. The walls pressing in.
Someone laughs. The sound is too loud. Too sharp.
I flinch.
Antonella is talking to some woman. Smiling. Nodding.
Another guest approaches. I don't catch his name. Don't catch what he says. I nod. Shake his hand. My responses are automatic now. Muscle memory from a life I used to live.
"—must be so difficult—"
The words cut through the fog.
I look up. A woman stands in front of me. Middle-aged. Expensive dress. Face arranged in an expression of sympathy that makes my stomach turn.
"I'm sorry?" My voice comes out flat.
"The adjustment." She gestures vaguely at the wheelchair. "It must be so difficult. But you're so brave, Bruno. So strong."
Brave. Strong.
The words are poison.
I'm not brave. I'm not strong. I'm a man in a chair who can't walk across a room. Who can't stand at his own wedding. Who can't—
"Bruno handles everything with grace." Antonella's voice appears beside me. Warm. Steady. "I've never met anyone more resilient."
The woman blinks. "Oh. Yes. Of course."
Antonella's hand lands on my shoulder. Light. Barely there.
But I feel it. Feel the warmth of her palm through my jacket.
"If you'll excuse us," Antonella continues, "I promised to introduce Bruno to someone."
She doesn't wait for a response. Just walks and I follow her away from the woman.
We stop near the windows. Away from the crowd.
"Breathe," Antonella says quietly. Her voice is low enough that only I can hear. "Just breathe."
Antonella
Bruno's shoulders drop slightly. His grip on the armrests loosens.
"Thank you," he says. The words come out rough. Like they cost him something.
"You looked like you needed an exit."
He turns his head. Looks up at me. His dark eyes are unreadable, but something flickers in them. Something that might be gratitude.
"I was going to—"
"Bruno!"
A woman's voice cuts through whatever he was about to say.
I turn.
She's walking toward us. Tall. Dark hair swept into a twist. Red dress that hugs her figure like it was sewn onto her body. Mid-thirties, maybe. Beautiful.
Her smile is wide. Too wide.
"I couldn't believe it when I heard." She stops in front of us, her eyes fixed on Bruno. "Married. You. After everything."
Bruno's jaw tightens. "Camilla."
Camilla. The name means nothing to me. But the way she's looking at him...
I know that look.
I've seen it on women who've lost something they thought was theirs.
"Aren't you going to introduce me?" Camilla's gaze slides to me. Assessing. Dismissing. All in one glance.
"My wife," Bruno says. His voice is flat. "Antonella."
"Wife." Camilla laughs. The sound is light. Musical. Completely fake. "How wonderful. And how did you two meet?"
The question is directed at me. But she's not really asking. She's testing.
I've dealt with women like this before. At charity events my mother used to drag me to. At school. Everywhere.
Women who smile while they sharpen their knives.
"Through family," I say. My voice is steady. Pleasant. "Bruno's brothers and my father have known each other for years."
"How sweet." Camilla's smile doesn't waver. "A family arrangement. How... traditional."
The implication hangs in the air. Arranged. Forced. Not real.
She turns back to Bruno. Leans closer. Her perfume is heavy. Floral. Suffocating.
"I was so worried about you," she says. Her voice drops. Intimate. "After the accident. I tried to visit, but they said you weren't seeing anyone."
Bruno's hands curl into fists on the armrests. "I wasn't."
"I understand." She reaches out. Touches his arm. "It must have been so hard. Waking up to... this."
This. The wheelchair. The word drips with pity.
I watch Bruno's face. Watch the muscle in his jaw jump.
He's going to explode. I can feel it.
"We should—" I start.
"Tell me," Camilla interrupts, her eyes still on Bruno, "do you remember our last conversation? Before the wedding? You said—"
"Enough." Bruno's voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Camilla blinks. Her smile falters.
The silence stretches.
Camilla's face cycles through emotions. Shock. Hurt. Anger. All of it quickly smoothed away behind that polished mask.
"Of course." She straightens. Her smile returns, but it's brittle now. Cracked at the edges. "I just wanted to offer my congratulations. To both of you."
She looks at me.
"Good luck," she says. "You'll need it."
Then she turns and walks away.
I watch her go.
There's something almost admirable about women like Camilla. The way they carry themselves. The absolute certainty that they matter. That their presence is a gift. That everyone in the room should be grateful for their attention.
I've always admired people like that. Not because I want to be them. But because I find it fascinating.
The complete inability to recognize that not everyone sees them the way they see themselves.
Camilla probably walked into this room thinking Bruno would still want her. Still need her. That his marriage was just an obstacle. A temporary inconvenience.
She never considered that she might not matter to him at all.
"She's gone."
Bruno's voice pulls me back.
I look down at him. His face is still tight. But some of the tension has drained from his shoulders.
"Old friend?" I ask.
"No." The word is sharp. Final.
I don't push. Whatever history exists between Bruno and Camilla, it's not my business. Not really.
Bruno is quiet for a moment. His eyes scan the room. Then they return to me.
"How did you know?"
I frown. "Know what?"
"That I needed to get away." He gestures vaguely toward the spot where we were standing before. Where the woman with her brave and strong had cornered him. "You appeared out of nowhere. Made an excuse. Got me out."
I consider the question.
The truth is, I don't have an answer.
I was talking to someone. A woman whose name I've already forgotten. Nodding along to a conversation about summer homes in Lake Como.
And then I looked across the room.
Saw Bruno's face.
And I just... knew.
"I don't know," I admit. "I just... sensed it."
Bruno stares at me. His dark eyes search my face like he's looking for a lie.
He won't find one.
"You sensed it," he repeats.
"Yes."
"No one senses anything about me." His voice is flat. "I don't let them."
I shrug. "Maybe you're not as unreadable as you think."
Bruno doesn't respond.
The party continues around us. Laughter. Conversation. The clink of glasses.
But here, by the windows, it feels like we're in our own bubble. Separate from everything else.
"We should go back," I say finally. "People will talk if we hide in the corner all night."
Bruno's lips twitch. Not quite a smile. But close.
"Let them talk."
I'm about to respond when movement catches my eye. Nico is walking toward us. His dark eyes sweep the room as he moves, cataloging everything. Everyone.
He stops a few feet away. Nods at Bruno.
"Everything alright?"
The question is directed at Bruno. Not me.
"Fine," Bruno says.
Nico's gaze flicks to me. Brief. Assessing. Then back to Bruno.
"Camilla was here."
"I noticed."
"She's gone now. Valentino escorted her out."
Bruno's jaw relaxes slightly. "Good."
I watch the exchange. The shorthand between them. Brothers who don't need full sentences to communicate.
Nico still hasn't acknowledged me directly. Not really. He looked at me, yes. But the way you look at furniture. Something in the room. Not someone.
I've felt it since the first night he came to my father's house. The way his eyes slide past me. The careful distance he maintains.
Nico doesn't like me.
I don't know why.
Maybe it's because I'm an outsider. A Romano. Someone who married into his family through debt and desperation rather than choice.
Maybe it's something else entirely.
Either way, the chill is unmistakable.