Page 118 of Valentino

And there it is.

It doesn't matter. I only care about one thing right now.

"I need you to swear something to me."

"Valentino."

"Listen first. Then curse at me." I pull in more smoke and let it out. "While I'm alive, you keep her safe. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, she doesn't get touched."

"That's already handled."

"I'm not finished." I pull in smoke and hold it long enough to get my voice under control. "If I die, you don't stop. You keep her protected. Not until Enzo loses interest. Not until Chicago settles. Until she's old, Bruno. Until she dies in a bed no enemy ever found. You treat her like my wife, because if I live long enough, that's what she becomes."

Bruno doesn't answer at first, but then he curses.

"You stupid, magnificent bastard," he says. "You fell in love on a protection detail? In less than two fucking weeks?"

"Five years. Two weeks is just when I stopped lying about it."

"Madonna santa." His breath rattles over the line. "All right. I swear it. On my father's grave, on the family, on whatever you want. She's protected."

"Thank you."

"But hear me, Valentino." For a second, he sounds like my cousin instead of the head of the family. "Nobody is touching you. You're not dying in some Roman alley over Aldo Basile's worthless corpse. I forbid it. Consider it an order."

"You can't order a bullet, Bruno."

"Watch me."

Papers shuffle on his end, and his voice hardens again.

"Nico and I fly out in two hours. Sicily. If Enzo tries to confirm the vendetta through Palermo, it becomes formal. We need to be at that table before he is. We know the old protocols better than he expects. That's our edge."

"Enzo wrote the old protocols."

"Then we'll quote them back to him. Old men love that." He exhales. "Four hours. Be ready. And Valentino, for the record? When this is over, you can stop talking about what she would have been and make her your wife properly. Capisce?"

He hangs up before I can answer.

The cigarette burns down to the filter before I remember it's in my hand.

I put it out.

The apartment feels wrong without her in it.

I make it to the counter before I see the chair.

The one she sat in this morning.

I grab it by the back and throw it into the wall.

Wood cracks. One leg snaps off and skids across the tile. The frame holds for half a second, then gives.

Not enough.

The fruit bowl goes next. Glass scatters. Apples roll under the cabinets. I put my fist through the nearest door, feel the wood split around my hand, then hit the one beside it because the first one leaves too much standing.

My knuckles open along the old scars. Blood runs over my hand and down my wrist.