Milo
Leone says nothing more after that.
None of us do.
The room is quiet for a few beats while Gina gets control of her emotions.
Across the room, Vittorio winces as he presses his fingertips gingerly to his forehead where the plate struck him. His lips curl into a grimace as he pulls his hand back and inspects it under the dim kitchen light. Blood glistens on his fingertips—a stark crimson against his pale skin. “Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, the curse sharp and cutting. He glances briefly at Gina, his expression unreadable, before turning back to assess the damage in the reflection of a nearby stainless-steel microwave.
Gina hiccups a shaky breath, one that sounds dangerously close to a sob she refuses to let out. Her composure is hanging by a thread—no, not even that. It’
