Page 10

Even Riccardo steps forward.

Not to hug. But to look me in the eye. He studies my face, slow and deliberate.

“You’re thinner,” he says.

“You’re uglier,” I reply.

His lip twitches. Almost a smile. We slide into the car, the leather interior still warm from sunlight. Alfio climbs in beside me. Enzo takes the front passenger seat, already fiddling with the stereo. Omero and Riccardo sit behind us, silent as the doors shut.

The driver pulls away, tires gliding over the road like silk.

I settle back into the seat, eyes drifting to the city rising ahead. Towering buildings, glass facades, marble pillars, gated villas—our world.

Everything looks the same.

But I’ve changed.

The boys miss me. I can feel it in their glances, in the way no one breathes easily yet. But no one says it.

The mansion rises like a sleeping beast behind the iron gates—stone, shadow, and eeriness, the black wrought-iron gate splitting open with a slow mechanical groan. Beyond the drive, cameras swivel soundlessly on the corners of the walls. Another guard watches from the balcony, hand resting near the grip of his weapon.

The car rolls up the curved drive and halts at the front steps. Even after all these years, the sight of it still feels like a punch to the chest—stone lions flanking the front doors, marble columns weathered by time, vines creeping up the sides like ivy trying to soften its edges.

Enzo hops out first, stretching his arms like he’s just finished a nap.

“Home sweet fucking home,” he mutters.

Omero opens my door. Alfio is already waiting on the steps, glancing toward the front entrance where two more guards stand watch.

I step out slowly, my boots hitting the gravel path.

Inside, the walls stretch high, paneled in dark wood. The floors gleam from a recent polish. But there’s a quiet stillness to the air. A kind of emptiness that settles in long after grief stops being spoken aloud.

The rooms feel lived-in and abandoned at the same time. Like people pass through, but never stay.

Enzo slaps my back as we walk through the corridor. “We kept your room ready, you know. Alfio wouldn’t let anyone touch it.”

“It’s true,” Alfio says over his shoulder. “Even the cleaners had to ask for permission.”

I raise a brow. “Have you always been this thoughtful?”

“No,” he says simply. “But you’re still my brother.”

They lead me upstairs, past the study, past the library, to the corner wing.

The door is closed.

Alfio pushes it open, and I step inside.

The room is exactly how I left it. Dark walls, charcoal bedding, black leather chair near the window. The scent of cedar oil lingers faintly in the air, probably from one of Nonna’s old habits. Everything is clean, dustless, perfectly still.

There’s a suit laid out across the bed—crisp, tailored, newer than anything I’ve worn in years.

Alfio nods toward it. “We figured you’d want something decent before dinner.”

“We’ll wait for you downstairs,” Omero adds. His voice is quiet, but steady. “We thought we’d eat together. Like before.”

I nod once.