Page 22 of Bruno
“Attia, my father is stubborn, but blood is blood. Chris is his grandson. He deserves a chance to meet him.”
She turns, fire in her eyes that could demolish empires if she wanted. “If he dares to be cruel to our boy, Bruno, I swear…”
“Then let me handle it.” My words cut through the air. “I promise nothing will harm Chris or you while I’m alive.”
We enter the dining suite, holding hands as a united front against any challenges ahead. The Sindicate Towers rise above Chicago like a fortress, a kingdom made of steel and glass.
“Uncle Bruno!” Chris’s excitement fills the room as my brothers surround him with tight hugs. Genuine and loud laughter brings life to the space, contrasting with the pounding of my heart.
Silence falls when Sal Falcone Sr., the former Don, steps forward. His gaze fixates on Chris, and for a moment, the world holds its breath.
“Grandson…” His voice rumbles with a depth that feels like the earth speaking. He embraces Chris tightly, planting kisses on each cheek. It’s an unexpectedly tender gesture that takes my breath away.
“Christopher Falcone, at last we meet.”
“Chris Wilson,” my son corrects, a hint of defiance in his young voice.
My father’s eyes narrow slightly, but there’s also a flicker of respect. “You are a Falcone,” he insists, “in you, I see your father, my father, myself. You are Falcone through and through.”
The statement hangs in the air heavily, revealing a legacy for my son to inherit—or reject. I squeeze Attia’s hand, silently promising that no matter what name our son chooses, he will forge his own path. And I won’t let anyone stand in his way.
The family quiets around us. Attia meets my gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, a vast array of emotions swirling within. I squeeze her shoulder, silently reassuring her, an unspoken vow sealed between us. Words aren’t necessary; our shared silence speaks volumes as we take our places at the grand table.
The clinking of fine china and the rustling of silk napkins fill the space where conversations are yet to begin. Marco’s glance catches mine from across the table, his nod subtle but significant. In that brief exchange, an entire conversation unfolds—acknowledging this rare moment of unity and peace in our tumultuous lives.
I observe the faces around me: Mariano’s dimpled smile as he whispers something that makes his wife blush, Carlo’s hand finding his partner’s beneath the table, Matteo’s laughter flowing like exquisite wine as he captivates his audience. Love fills my chest, fierce and protective. We have built empires and weathered storms, but it is this—this family, that binds us.
A flicker of longing crosses Marco’s face. Is he yearning for a connection like ours? The room buzzes with conversation and camaraderie, yet he stands alone. One day, I think to myself, he will find an anchor for his soul.
“Cheers,” I raise my glass, the crystal capturing the city lights outside the windows. “To family, to love, and to futures as bright as the stars.”
The toast rings true, a promise made and kept within the Sindicate Towers.