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Before I can gloat a little, he whirls on me. “It didn’t make things better, though. How the hell am I supposed to leave this family to my sons when my sons can’t stop bitching at each other long enough to run it?”
Dante clears his throat, sets his tablet aside, then stands. “Papa, it’s?—”
“Did I ask you to speak?” he snaps, loud enough for both of us to flinch. A deep red flush has crept up his neck and now floods his cheeks. “I can’t rest easy with the two of you at each other’s goddamn throats all the time! When are you going to grow up and put this rivalry shit behind you? What is it going to take?”
As he asks the question, he sways slightly, then leans his weight on his hands. “Oh… oh, fuck…”
“Papa?” I yell, but his eyes flutter, and he drops to the floor.
“Get help!” Dante practically vaults over the desk to get to him while I run across the room and fling open the door.
“Get in here!” I bark at the guards. Returning to the desk, my father lies on the floor, appearing unconscious.
“Papa, Papa, hang in there. Take it easy.” Dante presses an ear to his chest, and I notice the way he grips our father’s shirt in his fist before releasing a sigh. “He’s breathing. He has a steady heartbeat.”
My relief is short-lived. Just because Papa is still breathing and his heart is beating doesn’t mean he’s all right. “We should get him to his room,” I decide, and with the help of the guards, we manage to get him on his feet with his arms draped over our shoulders, half-walk, half-dragging him to the hall. He’s barely conscious, mumbling something I can’t understand while his chin touches his chest.
“Save your strength,” I urge him, but that’s a selfish request. I don’t want him to wear himself out, but how he’s mumbling incoherently is like an icy hand gripping my heart. This is not my father. My father does not fall apart like this. He’s still got years to go. We aren’t ready to lose him.
I don’t know whether Dante is thinking along the lines I am as we carry our father between us, but I doubt it. We’ve never shared much when it comes to the way our minds work, so why would that change now? At least we’re working together to get Papa up the stairs with the guards behind us, ready to catch him if he drops.
“Stay with us,” I beg as we trek down a hallway that has never seemed so long after reaching the top of the stairs. “You need to rest, that’s all. You’ve been working too hard.” Dante grunts but is smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself. If anything, this would be the moment to unload on me since what am I going to do with Papa leaning against me as we fight to get him to his bed?
“What is all the commotion?” My mother’s question is answered when she reaches the hallway and sees us practically carrying Papa. “Amore mio, sei malato?”
“He passed out,” I tell her before Dante can turn this into my fault. It very well could be. I might’ve sent him over the edge by bringing Emilia home. No, I can’t allow myself to entertain that idea, and I push it out of my mind while Mama hurries into the bedroom and turns down the bedding so we can make him more comfortable.
“He’s been working too hard,” Mama announces, jumping into action as soon as we’ve set him on the bed.
Time has slowed her down a little, and on a rainy day like this one, she would move slower, thanks to the knee she broke years ago, the damp weather irritating it. Yet she moves with the speed of someone Guilia’s age, dropping to her knees and removing his shoes, then standing again to unbutton his shirt before helping him stretch out on his back.
“Now tell me exactly how this started,” she demands, fixing the pillows behind his head and propping him up.
“I can tell you where it started,” Dante offers. When I look at him, he’s staring at me with rage burning in his familiar eyes. Eyes so much like my own, it’s unnerving at times. “It’s been about, what? Three weeks, maybe four, since you decided to go rogue and forget the family and hideout in the cabin?”
“Luca!” Mama shouts when I cock my fist back without thinking. My brother’s head snaps back, but he doesn’t flinch. Either he’s too stunned I’d make a move like that in front of our parents, or he knows I wouldn’t go through with it.
I would’ve let my fist piston forward to connect with anything I could hit if we were alone. But once I got started, I don’t know if I would have been able to stop. Instead, I stop myself at the last second and remember who’s standing beside me.
“Don’t you dare,” our mother whispers in horror as she takes me by the wrist and lowers my arm. “Don’t you ever let me see you do that again. Either of you.”
In the same breath, she whirls on Dante. “As for you, don’t you ever let me hear you say anything like that about your brother again. I don’t expect you two to get along all the time, but dammit, you are brothers. Blood. The future of this family depends on both of you, and unless you provide a solid foundation, it will crumble. You’re too old for me to put you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserve, but you are pushing me.”
“Mi amore,” Papa whispers. It’s the first coherent thing he’s managed since he collapsed. He lifts a hand, motioning for her to join him.
“What happened?” Now she’s the loving wife, stroking hair away from his forehead once she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, offering him water from the pitcher he keeps on his nightstand. He sips it slowly, looking up at her with pure love and trust radiating from his eyes.
“I got dizzy,” he murmurs, then slowly turns his gaze toward Dante and me. “Forgive me, boys. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dante’s voice is warmer than I’ve heard in a long time as he offers Papa a reassuring smile that never quite reaches his eyes. They’re still hard. Whether that’s because of me or because he understands how serious this could be, I don’t know. I doubt he’d tell me if I asked. “You get your rest now. I’ll head downstairs and keep things in order. Don’t worry about a thing.”
He manages to throw a threatening look at me as he turns away from the foot of the bed, one I pretend not to notice. His bullshit isn’t important now. Rather than stew over him, I lower the blinds and close the curtains over them so Papa can sleep. “Dante’s right,” I tell him as I go from one window to the other. “You have nothing to worry about except resting and feeling better.”
“Thank you, son,” he replies in a weak voice. “I feel better already.”
I wish that were true, and the sort of well-meaning platitudes Papa used to offer when I was a kid made a difference now when I’m too old to believe them. Mama murmurs a few loving words, joining me in the hallway so he can sleep in peace.
Once the door is closed, I turn to her. “Tell me the truth,” I whisper, taking her by the hands and noticing how they tremble. “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick? What can we do?”
