I stare at him. At the rigid set of his shoulders. At the way he won't quite meet my eyes.
He's lying. To me or to himself, I'm not sure. Maybe both.
"You kissed me back," I say quietly. "You pulled me closer. You?—"
"A mistake." The word cuts through the air. "It won't happen again."
Something twists in my chest. Not heartbreak—we don't have anything to break. But something close to it. Something thatfeels like rejection even though I know this marriage was never supposed to be real.
I wanted that kiss. I wanted him to want it too.
And for a moment, I thought he did.
"Fine." I force my voice to stay steady. "Then I'll go rest before dinner. Your mother will expect us to look happy."
Bruno's jaw tightens. "Antonella?—"
"I'll see you downstairs."
I turn and walk toward the door. My legs feel unsteady. My lips still tingle from his mouth on mine.
I open the door and step into the hallway, leaving him alone in his room with his wheelchair and his walls and his conviction that he has nothing left to offer.
Bruno
The bullet tears through the paper target's head. Center mass. Perfect shot.
I fire again. And again. And again.
Each round punches through the silhouette with mechanical precision. My arms don't shake. My aim doesn't waver. Over a year in this chair and I can still kill a man from fifty yards without blinking.
The training range sits at the back of the compound, far enough from the main house that no one complains about the noise.
I empty the magazine. Reload. Keep shooting.
She kissed me.
The thought burns through my skull like a bullet. I squeeze the trigger harder. The recoil jolts up my arms.
She kissed me and I kissed her back. I grabbed her hair and pulled her close and tasted her mouth like a starving man. I felt her gasp against my lips. I felt her hands on my shoulders.
And then I pushed her away.
Again.
I fire until the magazine clicks empty. The target is shredded. Holes cluster where the heart would be, where the lungs would be, where the brain would be. A perfect kill pattern.
I slam another magazine home.
I don't know how to do this.
I don't know how to let someone close. I don't know how to stop wanting her when every instinct screams that wanting her will destroy us both.
The first shot goes wide. I curse and adjust my grip.
Two years ago, I knew exactly who I was. Bruno Sartori. I had a plan. I had a purpose. I had a body that worked the way it was supposed to work.
I fire three rounds in quick succession. All center mass. My hands remember what my legs forgot.