CHAPTER ONE
Bruno
The elevator hums as it descends. I grip the armrests of my wheelchair, knuckles white against the leather.
Breathe. Control. Don't let them see.
My reflection stares back at me from the polished brass doors. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair longer than I've ever worn it. The face of a man who spent months in a hospital bed while his family moved on without him.
The doors slide open. I wheel myself forward.
The compound has always been built like this. Ramps where there could have been steps. Wide doorways. This elevator that nobody used for thirty years. Giuseppe designed it all when he built the place, like he knew one of his sons would end up broken.
Lucky me.
I roll down the hallway toward Pietro's study. The wheels make no sound on the hardwood floors. Wouldn't want the cripple to announce his arrival like some fucking spectacle.
The house smells the same. Giulia's cooking drifting from the kitchen. Leather and old books from the library I pass.
Nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
I catch myself counting the doorways. Measuring the width. Calculating whether I could escape quickly if I needed to. Old habits. Security training that never leaves, even when your legs don't work anymore.
Especiallywhen your legs don't work anymore.
Voices drift from Pietro's study. The door is open. I can hear Lorenzo's measured tone, Nico's clipped responses. Valentino's thick Sicilian accent.
They're all here. Waiting.
I stop just before the doorway. Close my eyes.
Breathe. Steady your fucking emotions.
I open my eyes. Square my shoulders.
I wheel myself through the doorway.
Four pairs of eyes turn toward me.
Pietro stands behind the desk. He's got that look on his face. The one that says he's calculating six different outcomes before I've even opened my mouth. Dark suit, sleeves rolled up. Always ready for a fight, my brother.
"Bruno." He nods once. No pity in his voice. Good. I'd have to kill him if there was.
Lorenzo rises from the leather armchair by the fireplace. The diplomat. The peacemaker. He's wearing one of his Italian suits.
"Good to see you," Lorenzo says. His voice is warm. Genuine. That's the thing about Lorenzo. He actually means the shit he says. Makes him either the best of us or the most naive. Jury's still out.
Nico doesn't stand. Doesn't speak. Just watches me from his position against the wall, arms crossed. The family strategist.The one who sees patterns where others see chaos. He's got his tablet tucked under his arm like a security blanket.
"Nico." I meet his stare. Hold it.
He nods. Once. That's all I'll get from him. That's all I need.
Valentino pushes off from the bookshelf where he's been leaning. My cousin. Built like a soldier because he is one. Gray threading through his black hair now, making him look distinguished instead of old. He runs security for the Sicily compound, keeps aunt Carmela and our mother safe, maintains our European connections. Old-world honor wrapped in a three-piece suit.
"Cugino." He clasps my shoulder as I wheel past him. Firm grip. No hesitation about touching me. "You look like shit."