Page 246 of Ricardo

That is how I know how badly he is holding himself together.

Ricardo is a man who knows how to keep still, but this stillness feels unnatural. Like it's forced.

So he sits beside me and waits.

His son is behind those doors.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and I see him on my apartment floor again. His gun still in his hand. His body between mine and the room. His mouth tight with pain as I press my hands against his side.

Stay down, he told me.

Even bleeding, he was still thinking about me.

My throat closes.

Ricardo’s thumb moves once across my knuckles.

“Breathe, cuore mio.”

I pull in air.

It shakes.

Across from us, Victoria sits with Mario’s jacket draped over her shoulders. She got a change of clothes too, but everybody else is still in their formal clothes. That seems unnatural too. Like a perfect night gone terribly wrong.

Mario’s hand covers it Victoria’s when he sits beside her.

He has been standing more than sitting.

Now, for the first time in several minutes, he is still.

Lorenzo stands near the corner with his phone in his hand, not speaking. Diego leans against the wall with his arms crossed, all charm stripped from his face. Twins Matteo and Tomasso sit side by side, both bent forward, elbows on their knees. Edoardo and Alessio stand near the hallway like they cannot bring themselves to sit.

The Contis fill the waiting room without making noise.

That makes it worse somehow.

There should be shouting. Demands. Orders. Something.

Instead, there is waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

I look down at Ricardo’s shirt. The blood I left on him earlier has dried in dark streaks near his chest. I did that. I grabbed him with Dante’s blood still on my hands.

He should change. The thought moves through me dully.

My mouth trembles, so I look away before I cry again.

I am so tired of crying.

I did not know a person could cry this much and still have anything left. My head hurts. My throat aches. My skin feels too tight. The borrowed sweater scratches lightly at my wrists. The clothes are soft, but they are not mine, and that should be the least important thing in the world.

It is not.

Nothing feels like mine anymore.