Page 8 of Broken Honor

So much of it.

It’s soaked into his shirt, dark and heavy, blooming across his chest like an open wound. His jacket hangs from one shoulder, half-shredded and stiff with dried crimson. His left side is worse—his ribs visible through a gash in the fabric, skin torn and glistening. Bone juts out just beneath the flesh. There’s something wet and glimmering beneath it, something I wish I hadn’t seen.

His face is pale—gray, almost—and one eye is swollen shut. There’s a trail of blood down his temple, crusted into his stubble, and his lips are cracked and trembling.

For a heartbeat, I just stare.

Then I move, rushing toward him on instinct, heart pounding.

“Oh—oh my God—you’re hurt! Please, come in, per favore—let me help you—”

He lifts his head slightly. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He sways forward again.

“Figlia di Dio… my eyes don’t deceive me” he mutters, breath rasping. “Lunetta Sofia Fiore.”

My feet stop mid-step.

I blink at him.

“What…?”

How did he know my name?

“Lunetta,” he says again, stronger this time, though his voice is breaking. “Listen—senti… The gold… the diamonds… è tutto tuo—they belong to you.”

I take a step back.

My fingers press to my chest. “I—…”

“It’s blood money,” he whispers, staggering into the room. “It’s all blood money. But it’s yours. È tuo, capisci? It’s yours.”

I see it now—the trail behind him. A smear of red where his boots dragged against the floor. The way his ribs shift unnaturally beneath the torn skin. His breathing is labored—wet and shallow, like something is rattling inside him.

I want to help him—I do—but something about his eyes makes my knees feel weak. The way they stare at me like he’s looking through me.

He takes another lurching step—and collapses.

I scream. The sound tears from my throat without thinking.

I rush toward him, dropping to my knees beside him, hands fluttering near his shoulders.

“Please, stay with me—don’t move—don’t—oh God—Nonna—Nonna isn’t here—”

His mouth opens again, his teeth stained red.

His eyes flick toward mine, wide and wild. “È tuo,” he gasps. “Don’t let them take it.”

His hand lashes out suddenly, grabbing my ankle.

I scream again—a piercing cry that echoes through the empty café.

I try to jerk away, but his grip tightens. He’s shaking—his entire body trembling with effort, blood pooling under him, soaking into the floorboards.

“Can’t you hear?!” he cries, voice cracking into a shout. “It’s yours! È tuo! Loro vogliono rubarlo—they want to steal it! But it’s yours!”

“Stop—please—let go—!” I cry, heart racing, fingers slipping on the floor as I try to pull back.

His grip finally loosens, hand falling away from my leg.

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