Valeria materialized at his shoulder, her hand pressed flat against her chest as if she were physically holding herself together. Her dark eyes—usually so steady—were wide, glistening, wounded in a way that cut deeper than any anger.

Anthony slipped through the gap between his parents, arms crossed, his face an unreadable mask of cold calculation. He didn't blink as he studied you, cataloging every micro-expression, every tremor.

Leo shoved past Anthony, his chest heaving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His eyes were wild, darting between your face and the place where your hoodie bunched suspiciously around your middle.

Bruno hung back, half-hidden behind Leo's shoulder. His face was the worst of all—not angry, not cold, but hurt. Deep, bewildered hurt, like a child who'd just discovered Santa Claus was a lie.

He stepped forward, and you saw his hands trembling slightly.

Rocco took one step into the room. The floorboard creaked under his weight like a warning shot.

The question hung in the air like smoke before a wildfire. Five pairs of eyes bore into you, demanding, desperate, loving in that suffocating, violent way only a family like yours could manage.