Page 30 of Bound By Honor

“Your father...” I choose my words carefully, “got hurt trying to protect someone he cares about. That’s the kind of man he is. The kind of man you’ll be someday.”

“Like you protect us?” His faith in me is absolute, crushing. “Marco says you’re the strongest. That you always fix everything.”

Looking at the contrast between his pasta sauce and the plate, suddenly I’m back in that safe house, watching Luciano’s blood spread across pristine sheets. My hands curl into fists under the table.

“I’m trying, Luca.” The admission costs me, but I owe him this much. “I promise you, I’m doing everything I can to bring them both home.”

“I know you will.” He finally takes a bite of pasta, as if rewarding my honesty. “Papá says Salvatores never break their promises.”

My phone vibrates—the hospital’s number lighting up the screen. Something’s changed with Luciano. I start to stand, but Luca’s small voice stops me.

“ZioDom?” His small voice carries the same quiet strength as his father’s, but wrapped in childhood innocence. “Will you tellPapásomething when you see him?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him...” His lower lip trembles slightly. “Tell him I finished the volcano base. And I used extra papier-mâché, just like he showed me. So it’ll be perfect when he comes home.”

The simple faith in his voice nearly breaks me. I lean down, pressing a kiss to his dark curls that smell of Rosetta’s lavender shampoo. “I’ll tell him,piccolo. Try to eat something for me, okay?”

As I stride toward the garage, my driver already waiting, I hear Luca’s voice drift after me: “Don’t forget about the volcano,ZioDom!”

The words follow me into the car, mixing with memories of another little boy waiting for his father to come home. The weight of responsibility settles heavier on my shoulders as Chicago’s streets blur past the bulletproof windows.

I am not my father. I will not let history repeat itself. Whatever it takes, whatever price I must pay, I will bring them home.

The hospital looms ahead, its sterile windows reflecting the setting sun like blood on glass.

The antiseptic smell assaults me as I enter Luciano’s room, mixing with the metallic tang of guilt in my mouth. The fluorescent lights cast sickly shadows across his face, transforming my strong consigliere into something fragile. Machines hum and beep in an irregular rhythm, a discordant symphony of survival. My shoes squeak against the freshly waxed linoleum, each step echoing my approach to judgment.

Luciano lies there like a fallen warrior, tubes snaking from his arms, chest rising and falling with mechanical precision. The sight of him—so still, so unlike his usual measured, perceptiveself—makes my stomach clench. This is my handiwork. My failure to control my temper. My bullet.

“You should see the basement,fratello.” My voice sounds foreign in the sterile quiet. “Marco’s turned it into something out of a horror movie. All for her. All because I couldn’t—“ I break off, the words sticking in my throat.

A nurse slips in, checking vitals with practiced efficiency. Her soft-soled shoes whisper against the linoleum as she works, pretending not to notice the armed guards outside or the gun beneath my jacket.

“Any changes?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“His vitals are stronger.” She adjusts something on one of the IV bags. “The doctor thinks he might wake soon.”

Soon. The word echoes hollowly. Soon might be too late for Aurora.

When we’re alone again, I move closer to his bedside.

“I keep thinking about that night at the compound. Remember? When you took that bullet meant for me?” My fingers trace the edge of his blanket. “You said then that loyalty demands sacrifice. But this... Christ, what have I done?”

The machines beep steadily, mocking my confession. Through the window, Chicago’s skyline glitters like broken glass, each light a reminder of where Aurora might be suffering.

“Alessandro sent another video.” My voice roughens. “She’s alive, but... there’s a bruise on her face, Luciano. Her lip was split. And all I could think was: this is my fault too. If I’d listened, if I’d seen what was happening between you two instead of reacting like my father would have...”

A slight movement catches my eye—his fingers twitching against the stark white sheets. Then his eyelids flutter, and my heart lurches.

“Luciano?” I lean forward, hitting the call button repeatedly. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening with recognition. The machines’ beeping accelerates as he tries to speak around the breathing tube.

“Don’t try to talk.” I grip his hand, feeling the weak pressure of his fingers. “The doctors are coming. You’re safe.”

“Nurse!” My voice booms through the doorway, echoing down the sterile hallway. “I need a doctor in here now!” The urgency in my tone sends several nurses running, their shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

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