Page 57 of Broken Honor

His gaze locks onto Lunetta’s unmoving form.

His expression hardens.

"What the fuck?"

*****

The doctor mumbles under his breath, words I barely catch. Something about extra pay, not signing up for this shit, and mafia bastards who think they can do anything they want.

He threads an IV into the girl’s arm with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving with tired precision that suggests this isn’t his first time dealing with a mess like this. The clear tubing coils down to the bag of fluids hanging beside the bed, slow droplets forming and slipping into the line.

The girl lies still, her body half-curled on the mattress, her blood-soaked dress twisted around her. Her bare arms are smudged with dried crimson, and her lips are dark with blood—some of it her own, some of it from Bugatti’s arm.

I take a slow breath.

My brothers aren’t looking at her.

They’re looking at me.

Omero, Alfio, Enzo, and Riccardo stand around the room, each one glaring at me with varying degrees of anger and disbelief.

Then—

"Were you going to leave her in there to die?" Enzo demands, his voice sharp with anger.

I drag my gaze to him. “She just passed out. Relax.”

"She could have fucking died!" Omero snaps, his fists clenching at his sides.

“She didn’t,” I reply, voice clipped.

Alfio exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose before fixing me with a hard look. “Why is she here, even? Who is she?”

Before I can answer, Riccardo scoffs, throwing up a hand. “Do you know how hard it was to get that blonde chick to come home with me?”

I barely turn my head. My patience is already worn thin.

“Why were you in that room?” I snap.

Riccardo shrugs, unfazed. “Because that’s my fuck room. The ladies love a squeaky metallic bed in a scary room.” He gestures vaguely, then scowls. “But thanks to you, I’ll never get laid by that woman.”

"For heaven’s sake, shut up," Alfio snaps at him, rubbing his hair before turning to me again. His eyes are sharp, demanding. “Tell us why she’s here.”

I hold his gaze, weighing my options.

There’s no escape from this.

No way to spin it without making things worse.

So I lie.

“She’s my girlfriend.”

Riccardo lets out a short, sharp laugh—but it dies when he sees my face.

"What?" Omero asks, his brows furrowing.

I inhale, then double down. “I saw her. I fell in love with her. I brought her here.”

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