28. Milan
MILAN
There was a faint tapping against my thigh. I was surprised that I could feel it; my body had been numb for days. I startled awake, blinking until my reality became real again and my dreamless sleep slipped away like it had every morning since.
“Hey,” Adriano said slowly, crouching in front of me and the awfully stiff leather armchair that I had certainly worn a hole in from sitting there for too long—a week to be precise.
I squinted through the bright white lights, focusing on the early soft orange sun rising past the windows instead. It was a small, ordinary event, the sun rising, but it had made everything less cold, less loud, less terrifying in the last week.
Adriano always seemed to bring the sun, even to my unconscious wife’s hospital bed.
“Is she—”
“She’s fine,” he said quietly, using his half-smile that did not indicate happiness nor sadness, simply tiredness. “They’ve put her on more of those meds, so she’s still out.”
It was to be expected, but my chest still hurt as I nodded slowly and rubbed my eyes awake.
She was gone when she had told me she would not be.
It was illogical to be experiencing this anger; this was not her fault, she had not asked for her throat to be slit, but these emotions that I could not name had voices, and the voices told my mind that I had trusted her to stay and she had left too.
My legs were pulsing with pins and needles as I rose to stretch them, reminding me that I was still in the same clothes that I had been the day before, and the day before that. I had never been this mismatched and unclean, but I had also never felt lost before.
Perhaps I had, and Sicily had simply found me.
“Did you review the building?” I asked Adriano, running a hand down my face to clear the drowsiness.
He yawned, nodding as he sat beside Sicily’s feet. “It’s good. She’d like it, but she should see it herself, Milano.”
I shook my head. That was not a choice.
Francesco had researched a new school building to purchase for her so that when she woke, she did not feel that this world was not fit for her. Sicily did not understand how made for her my world was, and it was my job to make her see what was all around her.
She did not deserve to have her dreams forgotten.
Adriano stood, wrapping one strong hand around the back of my neck, the other gripping my shoulder. Up close, I noticed the dark circles that stretched beneath his eyes and how his body slouched slightly, but I did not say that. People did not appreciate being told that.
“She isn’t going anywhere,” he said firmly. “You heard the doctors. She’s just exhausted.”
“And what happens when she stops being exhausted, Adrian? She will fear life. She will not want to exist here any longer because it is unsafe, and when the truth that I lied about our name for ten years is revealed, she will be unprotected.”
My Consigliere’s stare faltered, falling to the ground. “You don’t know any of that.”
“I do.”
“You’re being emotional!” he bit out.
That was a strange word to be associated with me.
The door creaked open, giving way to Francesco who held the abhorrent hospital coffee in three takeout paper cups. “Would you both take it outside if you’re gonna argue? We’re all tired, especially her. She’s trying to heal, so shut up.”
I took the warm cup from him, mumbling my apology before sitting in my chair again. He was the only one who looked somewhat well, and I found Francesco easy to look at, refreshing even, despite appearing as exhausted as Adrian.
I enjoyed watching him as he did his usual nonsensical routine; it was predictable and sturdy. He always made the same unnecessary sound about disliking the coffee, kissed Adriano’s unbrushed head of curls, and grumbled about how problematic we were to my wife’s unconscious body.
This entire thing was problematic; my life was problematic and that meant Sicily’s was too.
“I bought the school.”
My eyes narrowed on Francesco. “You did?”
“She’s supposed to be my business partner, right? My executive decision was to buy the school and decorate it with her artwork.”
Adriano choked on his coffee, droplets of brown dripping from his chin. “You’re gonna put that painting of Milan jerking in a hallway of kids?”
“I was not jerking.” I scowled. “I was holding it so she could paint it.”
Francesco slurped loudly on his cup, and I reached over to confiscate it. He glared but sighed as though he knew he would not win against me. “If I was holding my dick anywhere near Adrian, we’d definitely end up fucking.”
Adriano laughed, but I did not. His statement was likely true, and that was acceptable, but I was more focused on my Consigliere, my brother, who laughed freely without an ounce of reservation.
He loved Francesco, and though nobody outside of this room could know yet, it somehow felt like the entire world knew anyway, because it existed entirely within this room beside my wife.
She had allowed everyone the bravery to feel, and now she was unconscious.
I leaned forward, bringing Sicily’s warm fingers to my lips, breathing in the scent of her, but it was not her. She smelled of hospital bedsheets and something sterile. I wanted her perfume, her candy shampoo.
I wanted her.
Adriano squeezed my fingers. “Why don’t you go home and—”
“No.” I breathed, exhaling, though it relieved none of the tension.
He held up his hands in surrender. “We’re here, Milano. She’s not going anywhere.”
“We were also there, and they took her from five feet away.”
Francesco hummed. “I feel like that’s kinda different.”
“Different?”
“Well, it’s not like some random dudes came and took her.” He shrugged. “She was targeted for this dumb contract.”
Silence stretched between us. It was heavy and full of three people blinking at each other as though that was a form of communication. For others, perhaps it was, but I did not understand language this way.
Adriano leaned in close to his partner and whispered, “I feel like that wasn’t helpful.”
My Consigliere was rarely wrong, but on this occasion, he was. Francesco’s argument was logical, factually based, and somewhat relieving.
I kissed my wife’s head firmly and immediately walked out of the hospital room for the first time in a week.
She was safe. They were safe.
For now.
SICILY
Everything hurt, but what I noticed first wasn’t the pain—it was the silence.
It was so quiet and still, so unfamiliar.
I didn’t know where I was when I peeled my sticky eyes open, but by the box lights above me and the worn armchair beside me, it was easy enough to work out that I was in a hospital.
A hospital because Cesare Fera had slit my throat.
I shoved myself onto my forearms, wincing at the dull ache in my limbs. My eyes roamed the small room as if someone would materialize through the walls to tell me that everyone was fine.
Was nobody here because the Feras had killed everyone?
The silence was deafening. Lonely.
A sob threatened to rip from my lungs, but the throbbing, slicing pain in my throat silenced me. My lips tasted metallic, and my head spun to the mirror across the room, only to find white bandages clinging to my neck and something pink stuck to my forehead.
My shaky hand unglued the square of paper from my skin, taking a stray piece of hair with it, and then, despite the thickness in my throat, I laughed.
If you choose to wake up while we’re gone, go back to sleep and pretend you didn’t.
Seriously, we’ll be back soon, don’t tell Milan we left.
- Francesco
I read the note over and over again just to tell my brain that they were alive, that they were coming back, that nobody had died. My quiet laughter rang through the empty room as though it was loud, but so did my sobs.
I was crying and I hadn’t even known.
The door creaked open, and I peeked over the thin blankets, expecting to find Adriano and Francesco, but instead I found a delicate, concerned face and a familiar, gentle giant.
“Elena?” I croaked, my voice sounding hoarse. “Matt?”
I hadn’t seen them in weeks, and certainly not together. A part of me had wondered if they’d broken up, but when she ran to me, Matteo’s giant sweater falling down her arms and his eyes smiling at us from across the room, my heart settled.
“Oh my god, Sicily,” she whispered, stroking my tangled hair and holding me tight.
She smelled like sugar and Matteo’s cologne. They were risking a lot coming together, and they were risking it for me.
“How—” I started, my throat feeling raw as I spoke. “How did you know I was here?”
“Fiore called us when she was apparently escaping her fiancé’s house.” Matt stepped forward to sit on the edge of the bed. “Fucking hell, Sicily, I knew that family was fucking crazy.”
My breathing picked up, catching painfully against my ribcage. “You spoke to Fiore?”
Elena nodded.
“She’s alive?”
Matt frowned. “She’s literally standing right outside the door with a pregnant girl.”
Another sob whimpered from my lips.
Everyone was okay, at least physically, and Bella was still pregnant. Even if the situation was far from perfect, the fact that nobody had died was perfect. Everything else could be fixed one day.
“Should I take that as a sign to tell them to fuck off or…?” he asked, his frown deep.
I shook my head. “Let them in.”
Though the thought of Cesare Fera was an angry, fierce beast within me, the sight of Bella, who looked so small and lost staring at me from the doorway, softened it. She had been innocent in all this, too. She had been another victim of the Lucca brothers.
A shaky smile spread across my lips as I held my hand out to her. “Is your baby okay?”
Bella walked in slowly, like she expected me to pounce on her. “All fine, just a scare. A-are you all right, Sicily?”
Was I okay?
Everything that Cesare had done had been terrifying, but through being there, I’d discovered what had truly happened that night, and no contract could silence that.
They had all just been boys, and the trauma that had destroyed them had found peace in each of us girls, even Cesare’s. If I could forgive Milan’s sins because his brain was still healing from being young and abused, could I forgive the Feras?
I took Bella’s hand, pulling her into me. “I’m okay. Did Milan hurt you?”
She shook her head against my shoulder, her own rocking as she cried. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, Bella,” I whispered. “He’s sick, isn’t he, Cesare?”
“He needs help, we’re going to get him help,” Bella sobbed. “I didn’t mean to tell him about what you said about opening the school at the gala, I just thought it was a good idea.”
I held her tighter, knowing that she was grieving the man that she’d once fallen in love with.
That house, those fathers, that mother, they’d all taken from each of these men from the day they’d been born and now there was nothing but pieces of them that we needed to rebuild.
I’d seen it in the dungeon when Brenno had found me; he’d told me his entire truth from the day they’d been sent away to their mother’s death, and it didn’t match Milan’s, not entirely.
They’d solidified their emotions about one another on a misunderstanding, and I needed to fix that so Milan could live his life and so could they.
Before I could tell Bella about it, the door opened again and my sister stood there, looking more like a ghost than I thought possible for someone as loud and chaotic as Fiorella.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her hands tucked into her sleeves.
Her eyes were puffy and red like she’d cried her heart out on the way here, like she did truly care about me.
“Fiore—” I began, but she shook her head and stepped inside.
“Don’t make yourself talk, Cily.” She sniffled. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
None of this had truly been her fault either—she was just a woman, and women always assumed the tension and the heartbreak and the blame. Fiorella Bianchi simply wanted to be loved and seen, and she’d found Brenno’s wandering spirit.
If Milan wasn’t bad, neither was Brenno.
Neither was Cesare.
None of this was Bella or Fiore’s fault. They were just women who thought it was.
Women were the people who blamed themselves for the actions of men.
Women were the people who acted like the villains when they were the victims.
Women were the people holding everything together.
“Stop it,” I whispered, causing them both to look up.
“Stop thinking this is your fault.” I forced myself to sit upright even though my muscles protested and my head spun.
“Your husbands’ choices are not your own.
You are not his puppet master. You are the only ones holding them accountable, and we need to do that now. ”
“Do what now?” Fiorella asked quietly.
“Hold them accountable to each other. Whatever happened that led them to getting sent away to Stefano changed them, whatever happened to their mother that night changed them, and none of us know the real truth. We can’t help them unless they help themselves.”
Bella wiped her eyes. “What Milan told me was different to what Cesare and Brenno think happened. It made me wonder whether they hate him for nothing.”
It wasn’t in their nature to hurt, but it was in the nature of their hatred.
Milan had liked cars.
Brenno had loved his mom.
Cesare had always wanted his own family.
They’d been shown that these things cost, that they cost them their own safety.
“They need help,” I said quietly, swallowing the taste of blood in my mouth. “We need to help them to help us.”
“What do we do?” Fiorella sighed.
We were strong women, but even stronger together. We could be soft and kind, but that wasn’t what would fool the Lucca brothers into finding themselves again.
I wasn’t a god; I couldn’t control everything, couldn’t stop these men from acting in their hatred and violence, but I could ask, I could speak, and that alone was enough to help.
That alone was powerful.
I held their hands tightly, joining us as one. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”