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.