Because I trust him with every part of me, even if I burn to kill Matteo this very second.
I grit my teeth and force myself to focus on Anna instead of the rage clawing at me.
She stands there, candlelight warming her features, her hands folded in front of her. And when she turns, I see something I don’t expect to find on my sister’s face.
She doesn’t look afraid.
Not even a little.
Her eyes aren’t empty or panicked or pleading. They’re steady. Calm. Almost… comfortable.
My brow furrows.
What the hell?!
Matteo steps closer and says something too faint for either Marcello or me to hear, and my eyes must be playing tricks on me, because it almost looks like Anna is smiling back at him.
The urge to leap out of the booth and slit his throat right there and then is overwhelming.
“Now?” I whisper sharply.
“No,” Marcello says again.
I’m going to kill Marcello, too, at this rate.
My fingers curl so tightly around my blades that my knuckles ache. Each second we wait scrapes at me like sandpaper, wearing down the thin strip of patience I have left. Marcello watches Matteo with a predator’s stillness. He isn’t impatient. He isn’t emotional. He’s calculating.
He waits for patterns.
He waits for openings.
He waits for certainty.
And then that’s when Matteo’s phone buzzes.
He steps away from Anna, frowning as he glances at the screen. He mutters something to her, something that softens thecorners of his mouth, and then walks a few steps toward the side pews to take his phone call.
That’s when I hear Marcello’s breath halt to a stop.
I freeze, hardly daring to breathe myself.
“Now,” he says.
Not needing to be told twice, we burst out of the confessional like unleashed demons.
Marcello moves with terrifying speed, lunging straight for Annamaria. She gasps as he grabs her, pulling her tight against his chest, shielding her with his body, whispering something urgent into her hair. Her hands fly up, clinging to him as shock finally replaces whatever strange calm she had before.
And while Marcello ensures Anna’s safety, I fix my sights on my target.
My arm lifts before I consciously command it, muscle memory taking over as I send blade after blade slicing through the air. They fly with satisfying accuracy, thudding into Matteo’s back.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
