Page 58 of Brutal Union
"He'll live," she says, exhaustion heavy in her voice. "But his hands… there's significant damage. Nerve damage, possibly permanent. He may never have full use of them again."
The words land heavy. Dante speaks with his hands. Without them, he's lost his voice all over again. Because of me. Because I wanted to prove I could be more than Marco's kept woman.
Ana sobs against the wall, cradling their newborn daughter who fusses at the distress in her mother's voice. Faith holds Anaup while Luca paces like a caged animal. But Marco… Marco has gone somewhere I can't reach.
He stands at the window, staring at nothing, and the ice in his posture makes me shiver. When I approach, he doesn't acknowledge me. The warmth from this morning, when he called me his brilliant strategist, when he was inside me whispering how perfect I am, has vanished completely.
"Marco, I'm so sorry," I start, my voice breaking. "I didn't know. I never thought…"
"Don't." He cuts me off without looking at me. "Your strategies are done. This is what happens when I forget that Bernardi women get people killed."
The callback to my mother makes the wound deeper than any bullet could. "Please," I whisper. "Let me…"
"This is what happens when I forget who I am." His voice is cold as winter death. "When I let emotion override judgment. When I treat you as something more than what you are."
The words slice through me. "What am I?"
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are empty. All the warmth, the pride, the love I saw this morning when he called me his equal, his partner. It's all gone, replaced by the cold calculation of the Don who took me at gunpoint.
"My wife," he says simply. "Nothing more. Nothing less." His jaw ticks, the only sign that the words cost him something.
21 - Marco
The surgeon’s second update is no better than the first. Her voice crackles through my phone, each word another nail in my chest. “The nerve damage is extensive, Mr.Rosetti. Your brother’s hands…”
I stand at my office window, Dante's blood still crusted under my fingernails, staining the cuffs of my shirt. The afternoon sun mocks us all, too bright for a day that started with bullets and betrayal. The office still reeks of gunpowder from my jacket, mixing with the copper scent of blood that won't wash clean.
"How extensive?" My voice comes out flat, controlled, nothing like the rage building in my chest.
"We've repaired what we could. The bones will heal, but the fine motor control… it may never fully return. I'm sorry."
Fine motor control. The hands Dante uses to speak, to communicate everything his damaged throat cannot. Gone because I trusted my wife's judgment. Because I let emotion override years of careful planning. My throat burns from the tension of the last few minutes, from holding back the roar that wants to escape.
The office door opens behind me. I don't turn, but I smell her. My cologne on her skin from yesterday when I was inside her, mixed with fear-sweat from the restaurant. My cock twitches traitorously at the memory, even as rage consumes everything else. Valentina hovers in the doorway, fresh clothes draped over her arm.
"Marco, I brought you something clean to—"
"This is family business." The words come out sharp enough to cut. I end the call with the surgeon, still not turning to face her.
"I am family." Her voice carries that defiance I used to find intoxicating. Now it just reminds me of her suggesting that restaurant, so confident in childhood memories. "Let me help. We need to coordinate a response to—"
"We?" I finally turn, and she takes a step back at whatever she sees in my face. "There is no we in this. My brother is lying in a hospital bed because of your brilliant strategy."
She flinches but doesn't retreat. The clothes slip from her fingers, pooling on the floor between us. "I didn't know—"
"Exactly. You didn't know." I move to my desk, spreading out territory maps that blur together through exhaustion and fury. Dante's blood flakes off my knuckles as I clench my fist. "You should check on your sister. Make sure she's comfortable."
The dismissal hangs between us. She takes a step forward, hand reaching toward me. My body betrays me, leaning toward her warmth for a heartbeat before I sidestep the contact like it's poison. Something flickers in her eyes. Hurt, confusion, the beginning of understanding.
"Marco, please. I can help plan the counterstrike. I know how my father thinks, how—"
"No." The word drops between us with finality. "You've helped enough."
The door slams open hard enough to crack against the wall. Luca storms in, violence radiating from every movement. There's blood on his knuckles, someone else's, knowing my brother. His eyes track between Valentina and me, noting the distance, the tension.
"This is what happens when we go soft!" He kicks a chair, sending it spinning. "When we let outsiders into planning sessions, when we trust anyone who isn't blood."
Valentina goes rigid, but I don't defend her. Can't defend her. Not when Dante's blood is still under my fingernails. The words I should say stick in my throat like broken glass.
