Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bruno
Iwheel myself through the back entrance. The kitchen staff glance up as I pass, then quickly look away.
Liam follows three steps behind me. His footsteps are quiet on the tile floor.
"He's in the private dining room," Liam says. "Waiting for Romano."
"I know."
I push through the swinging doors into the main dining area. Crystal chandeliers hang dark overhead. White tablecloths gleam in the dim light filtering through curtained windows. Every surface is polished to perfection.
Lorenzo built this place from nothing. Turned a failing Italian restaurant into one of the most exclusive dining experiences in Chicago. He has a gift for creating beauty. For making people feel special.
I never had that gift.
The private dining room is at the back. Heavy oak doors. Soundproofed walls. The kind of space where deals get made and secrets get buried.
I pause outside the doors.
My hands are steady on the wheels of my chair. My breathing is even. My face shows nothing.
Inside, I'm drowning.
Lorenzo and I haven't spoken properly in months. Not since the truth came out. Not since everything we'd both been hiding exploded in our faces and left our family in pieces.
I push open the doors.
Lorenzo stands by the window, his back to me. He's wearing one of his perfectly tailored suits. Navy blue. Expensive. His shoulders are tense beneath the fabric.
He doesn't turn around.
"Bruno."
His voice is flat. Neutral. The voice he uses with business associates and strangers.
Not the voice he used to use with me.
"Lorenzo."
I wheel myself into the room. The doors swing shut behind me with a soft click. Liam stays outside. This conversation doesn't need witnesses.
"Eraldo Romano will be here in a few minutes," Lorenzo says. Still facing the window. Still not looking at me.
"We need to talk."
Lorenzo laughs. The sound is bitter. Sharp.
"Now you want to talk." He finally turns. His face is a mask of controlled anger. "After everything that happened. Now you want to talk."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm done running," I say.
Lorenzo's jaw tightens. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"You knew." His voice is quiet. Dangerous. "About Riccardo and Luna. And you said nothing."
"I know."
"She was my fiancée, Bruno." The words crack. Just slightly. Just enough to show the wound beneath. "I was going to marry her. Build a life with her. And the whole time, she was fucking our brother behind my back. And you knew."
"I know."
"Why?" Lorenzo takes a step toward me. His hands are shaking. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me walk around like a fool while everyone else—"
"Not everyone." I cut him off. "Just me. I was the only one who knew."
"That doesn't make it better."
"I know."
Lorenzo stops. He stares at me with something that looks like hatred. Or grief. Or both.
"Then why?"
I've asked myself that question a thousand times. Lying awake at night. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering if I made the right choice.
I never did.
"Because I thought I was protecting the family." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Riccardo was the heir. The golden son. Father's favorite. If the truth came out, it would have destroyed everything."
"So you chose them over me."
"I chose wrong."
The admission hangs in the air between us.
Lorenzo's expression flickers. Something shifts behind his eyes.
"You chose wrong," he repeats slowly.
"I'm good at that." I grip the armrests of my wheelchair. "Choosing wrong. Thinking I know what's best when I don't know anything at all. I thought I was being strategic. Protecting everyone. Instead, I just—" I stop. Swallow. "I hurt you. And I'm sorry."
Lorenzo is silent for a long moment.
"You're not the only one who kept secrets."
I look up at him.
"Father's other family." Lorenzo's voice is hollow.
"I know."
Lorenzo laughs again. Still bitter. But softer now.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" He moves to the small bar in the corner of the room. Pours two glasses of whiskey. "Both of us keeping secrets we thought would protect the family. Both of us wrong."
He wheels one of the chairs away from the table and sets a glass on the surface near my hand.
Then he sits across from me.
We drink in silence.
The whiskey burns going down. Good burn. Expensive burn. Lorenzo only stocks the best.
"I hated you," Lorenzo says finally. "For months. I couldn't even look at you without wanting to—" He stops. Shakes his head. "But then I realized something."
"What?"
"I did the same thing." He meets my eyes. "Different secret. Same choice. I thought I was protecting everyone by staying quiet. Instead, I just made everything worse when the truth finally came out."
"We're both idiots."
"Apparently."
Another silence. But this one feels different. Less hostile. More tired.
"I'm not saying I forgive you," Lorenzo says. "I'm not sure I can. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Luna—" His voice catches. "What she did. What Riccardo did. Finding out you knew... it felt like another betrayal on top of everything else."
"I understand."
"But I'm also not saying I hate you." He takes another drink. "I'm saying... I don't know what I'm saying. I'm saying we're brothers. And maybe that has to mean something. Even when we fuck up. Even when we hurt each other."
I stare at him.
This is more than I expected. More than I deserved.
"I'm trying," I say. "To be better. To stop making the same mistakes."
"The girl." Lorenzo's lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Antonella. She's good for you."
Before I can respond, the door opens.
Liam steps inside first. His hand rests on his hip, near his weapon. Behind him, two of our men drag a figure between them.
Eraldo Romano.
He looks like a ghost.
His suit is wrinkled. Stained. The collar of his shirt is open, revealing a neck that's too thin. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharp beneath papery skin. Dark circles ring his eyes like bruises.
He's lost weight since I last saw him. Too much weight. His clothes hang off his frame like they belong to someone else.
The men release him. He stumbles forward, catches himself on the edge of the table.
"Sit," I say.
Eraldo looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot. Empty. The eyes of a man who's already given up.
He sits.
Lorenzo moves to stand by the window again. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. He's here as a witness, not a participant. This is my mess to handle.
I wheel myself closer to the table.
"Where were you?"
Eraldo doesn't answer. His hands rest on the table, trembling slightly.
"You ditched your security detail," I continue. "Threw away your phones. Disappeared for six hours. Your children have been trying to reach you for days. Your daughter—" I stop. Breathe. "Antonella has been worried sick. Gianna too."
Still nothing.
"Look at me."
Eraldo raises his head. Slowly. Like it takes all his strength.
"Where were you?"
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"I wanted to end it."
The words are barely a whisper.
I don't move.
"Explain," I say.
Eraldo's hands curl into fists on the table. His whole body is shaking now. Not from cold. From something deeper.
"I went to the bridge." His voice cracks. "The one by the river. Teresa and I—" He stops. Swallows. "We used to walk there. When we were young. Before the kids. Before everything."
Teresa. His wife.
"I stood there for hours," Eraldo continues. "Looking at the water. Thinking about how easy it would be. One step. That's all. One step and it would be over. No more pain. No more—" His voice breaks completely. "No more looking at my children and seeing her face."
I say nothing.
"But I couldn't do it." Eraldo laughs. The sound is hollow. Broken. "I'm a coward. I've always been a coward. I couldn't even do that right. So I just... walked. For hours. Until it was late and I realized I needed to get back to Chicago. Back to—" He gestures vaguely. "This."
"Why?"
Eraldo looks at me. Really looks at me. For the first time since he sat down.
"You want to know why?" His voice rises. "You want to know what it's like? To lose the love of your life? To wake up every morning and reach for her, and she's not there? To hear her voice in your head, telling you to get up, to keep going, and knowing you'll never hear it for real again?"
I grip the armrests of my wheelchair.
"You want to know what it's like to look at your children?
" Eraldo's eyes are wet now. Tears streaming down his hollow cheeks.
"To see her in every one of them? Antonella has her eyes.
Gianna has her laugh. Claudio has her stubbornness.
And every time I look at them, I remember that she's gone.
That I couldn't save her. That I watched her waste away and there was nothing I could do. "
His fist slams against the table.
"I couldn't be a good father." The words are a sob. "I tried. God, I tried. But every time I looked at them, all I could see was her. All I could feel was the hole she left. And I couldn't—I couldn't—"
"You didn't try."
Eraldo freezes.
"What?"
"You didn't try." I lean forward. "You didn't try to be a good father. You gave up. The moment Teresa died, you gave up on everything. On your children. On your family. On yourself."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." My voice is cold. Hard. "You lost your wife. It destroyed you. And instead of fighting through it, instead of being there for the three children who also lost their mother, you crawled into a bottle and a casino and left them to fend for themselves."
Eraldo's face crumples.
"I know—"
"You don't know anything." I'm shaking now.
With rage. With something else I can't name.
"You want to talk about pain? About loss?
Your daughter sacrificed herself for you.
She married a stranger to pay your debts.
She walked down that aisle knowing nothing about me except that I was a Sartori and her family needed saving.
And she did it anyway. Because someone had to. Because you couldn't."