Villa Moretti. 4:00 AM.The house was quiet when we carried him in.Luca supported Lorenzo on his good side, and I took the other. Lorenzo was conscious, but barely. The adrenaline had completely vanished, leaving behind only the jagged reality of a bullet wound and broken ribs.Nonna was waiting in the foyer. She was wearing her dressing gown, holding a rosary.She took one look at her grandson—covered in blood, dust, and sweat—and she didn't gasp. She didn't cry.She nodded."He looks like Alessandro," she whispered, crossing herself. "After the War of '82.""He needs the doctor," I said, my voice hoarse. "Again."We hauled him up the stairs. Every step was a battle. Lorenzo groaned, his face grey with pain, but he refused to be carried. He walked.We got him into the master bedroom. I stripped off his ruined suit jacket. The shirt was stuck to his skin with dried blood."Cut it off," Lorenzo murmur
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