Chapter 1
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.
Especially when 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."
"Fuck you too."
He grins.
I position myself near the window. Back to the wall. Clear sightlines to both doors. Old habits.
"Where's Vittoria?" I ask.
Pietro's jaw tightens. "With her husband."
"The Russian."
"Dmitri. Yes."
I let that sit for a moment. My baby sister. Married to Bratva.
"She should be here for this."
"She's busy." Nico's voice is flat. "Playing house, as you put it when you called this meeting."
I didn't realize I'd said that out loud on the phone. Doesn't matter. It's true.
"What's this about, Bruno?" Pietro moves around the desk. Leans against the front of it. Trying to be casual. Trying not to look like the Don addressing his crippled brother.
I hate that he's good at this. Hate that he stepped into the role and made it look easy.
Stop. He didn't want it. He took it because you couldn't.
"I want the Don position."
The words land like a grenade in the center of the room.
Silence.
Pietro doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stares at me.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticks. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nobody speaks.
I grip my armrests tighter. Feel the leather creak under my fingers.
Say something. Someone fucking say something.
Pietro pushes off from the desk. Takes two steps toward me. Stops.
"Are you sure?"
Three words. No judgment. No pity. Just a question.
Before I can answer, Nico moves.
"No." He steps between us, tablet forgotten on the side table. "This can't happen."
"Nico—" Lorenzo starts.
"No." Nico's voice cuts like a blade. "We've kept our mouths shut for months. Watched him spiral. Watched him push everyone away. But this?" He gestures at me. "This is insanity."
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. "Careful."
"Careful?" Nico laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "You want to lead this family? You can barely stand to be in the same room with us. You've spent the last year treating everyone who tries to help you like they're the enemy."
"I don't need help."
"That's exactly the problem." He steps closer. Close enough that I have to look up at him. I hate looking up. Hate the angle. Hate what it represents. "You hate everyone, Bruno. Every single person who walks through that door. The staff. The soldiers. Your own brothers."
"That's not—"
"You hate yourself most of all." His voice drops. Quiet now. More dangerous than when he was shouting. "And you want us to follow you? You want to lead this family into war with that kind of poison running through your veins?"
My hands are shaking. I can feel it. Can't stop it.
Control. Breathe. Don't—
"If you put yourself in charge," Nico continues, "we're all going to end up dead. Every single one of us. Because you don't give a shit about anything anymore. Not the family. Not the business. Not yourself."
The words hit like bullets. Each one finding its mark.
I knew someone would say no. Knew there would be resistance. I prepared for this. Rehearsed my responses. Had logical arguments ready.
But I can't find them now. Can't find anything except the rage building in my chest like a wildfire.
"You want to know what I think?" The words spill out before I can stop them. Poison, just like he said. "I think you'll be the first dead person if you push me a little more."
Nico doesn't flinch.
"That." He points at me. "That right there. That's why you can't lead. Why the hell do you think you can be a good leader when you hate every single human being in this room? When you hate yourself so much you can't even look in a mirror?"
"Fuck you."
"Brilliant response. Really inspiring. I'm sure the soldiers will follow that kind of leadership straight into their graves."
I'm moving before I realize it. Wheeling toward the door. Away from his words. Away from the truth in them.
"Bruno—" Pietro's voice.
"Go fuck yourself." I don't know if I'm talking to Nico or all of them. Doesn't matter. "All of you."
The wheels spin against the hardwood. I'm through the doorway. Down the hall. Past the library with its leather and old books. Past the kitchen where Giulia's cooking fills the air with memories of a life I can't have anymore.
I find an empty room. Some sitting area I don't remember. Don't care.
I stop. Grip the armrests until my knuckles go white.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
I knew this would happen.
I knew it.
And I still wasn't fucking prepared.
