Before.
Before Giovanni.Before the accusation.Before the gunshot.Before the Rivas turned his name into a curse.
“I’m close, Papa,” I whisper. “I’m almost there.”
The words scrape out of me, rough and thin. My fingers curl around the photograph until the paper bends and trembles.
Almost there.
The tunnels, the vault door, Giovanni’s warning echoing in my skull — A RIVAS BETRAYED ME.Santino’s hands around Rocco’s throat.His voice in the dark.His eyes when they found mine.
Everything is sliding into place.
And that’s the problem.
The closer I get,the softer I feel.
Tears burn my eyes—hot, unwelcome. I blink hard, furious at myself, furious at the instinct to lean toward the warmth Santino didn’t mean to give me.
I reach for the candle on the nightstand.
The flame is small, steady. Waiting.
I lower the photograph over it.
My hand shakes once.
I should keep it—proof of who he was, proof of who I was.
But that girl is dead.
Just like he is.
The edge of the photo darkens. Paper curls, black creeping inward. The flame licks across his jawline, his mouth, the edges of his smile. His eyes vanish next. His arm around my small body dissolves into ash.
I watch it burn.
The smell—hot, bitter, choking—fills my lungs. Tears lace my vision, but I don’t look away. I need the pain to be sharp. I need the hurt alive. I need the wound open.
I didn’t come here for a priest with haunted eyes and blood on his collar.
I came here for revenge.For the truth.For him.
The last corner of the photo crumbles, falling in delicate flakes onto the pile of ash on the floor.
A tear slips free anyway.
It lands on the ashes with a soft hiss, turning black to gray.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t afford to miss you.”
The candle flame stretches tall, then shrinks, casting our shadows—mine and a dead man’s memory—up the wall.
I stare at the ashes, chest tight, fingers hovering over what’s left.
I need to stay angry.I need to stay focused.Because Santino is blurring lines, I swore would stay sharp.
And the moment I let myself soften—
