Page 9 of Broken Honor

His eyes roll upward, mouth opening again—but this time it’s just blood.

A thick, dark stream spurts from his lips.

His body seizes—legs jerking, arms twitching—then falls still with a final, wet gasp.

The sound of his last breath echoes in my ears, heavy and broken.

I stay frozen on the floor, breath coming in quick bursts, chest heaving, my ankle still tingling where his hand had gripped me.

He body goes limp and I let out another scream.

Chapter Two – Vieri

The gate clanks behind me, and the world changes.

No more steel, no more stone walls pressing in. Just air—cold, unfamiliar—and the scent of asphalt and eucalyptus drifting on the breeze. I squint against the sun. It feels wrong on my skin.

The coat they gave back to me hangs limp over my shoulders—creased, faded, stained near the collar.

The shirt underneath still carries sweat and confinement. I tug it once, but it clings like a second skin.

At the curb, the car waits.

A black Maserati Quattroporte. It doesn’t belong here, outside these rusted gates. Chrome trims, dark-tinted windows, the Tavano crest stitched discreetly into the headrests.

The back door opens.

Alfio is the first to step out—clean-cut in a tailored suit, sleeves rolled up, gold cufflinks glinting under the sun. His jaw tightens as he looks at me, like he’s trying to make sense of the man walking toward him.

Enzo follows, tossing his cigarette aside with a flick of his fingers. “Dio mio,” he mutters under his breath. “You look like hell.”

I keep walking toward them.

“You missed me,” I say quietly.

“Ma certo,” he says with a grin. “Like I miss food poisoning.”

Still, there’s a softness in his eyes. Omero leans against the passenger door, arms folded, eyes shaded behind thin wire-frame glasses. His suit’s neat, black on black, but there’s a smudge of ink on his wrist—probably from scribbling notes again.

Then Riccardo steps out last, closing the car door with a sharp click. He’s built heavier now—broader than I remember—and his face has hardened with something colder than time. He says nothing. Doesn’t even nod. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, mouth set in that permanent scowl he was born with.

The wind moves but no one else does.

Then Alfio steps forward.

He pulls me into a firm hug—one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other slapping my shoulder like he’s knocking something loose from my spine.

“Bentornato, fratello,” he says roughly against my ear. “Welcome home.”

“About time,” I murmur.

Enzo crashes into me next, arms tight, knuckles pressing hard into my back.

“Don’t get soft on us,” he mutters, voice gruff, hiding the catch in it with sarcasm. “We’ve barely held this circus together without you.”

Omero offers a pat on the shoulder—brief, awkward, almost reluctant.

But his hand lingers half a second longer than it should.

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