I told myself I’d be the one Rivas who didn’t drown in blood.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word dragging out of me like a confession. “I’m becoming him.”
The storm cracks again, violent enough to shake dust loose from the ceiling beams.
Somewhere beneath the church, the tunnels pulse in my memory like a living vein—dark, twisting, hungry. I can still feelthe cold air down there. Still hear the echo of Rocco’s last breath. Still taste the iron in the back of my throat.
I stare at the key again.
The vault.
Giovanni’s vault.
The one he always said was “for the King’s eyes only.”
He protected it as if it held the heart of his empire.
Pia came dangerously close to one tonight.
My fingers tighten around the metal until it digs into my skin.
I can’t run from this anymore.
Not from the kill.
Not from Pia.
Not from my father’s sins rotting beneath this church like a buried carcass.
Everything is unraveling.
Her lies.
My mask.
Giovanni’s legacy.
And I’m sitting here like a coward, pretending prayer will fix any of it.
I stare at the crucifix tangled in my other hand.
I try to recall the prayer, which is in Latin and I've said since I was a boy, but I can't. Nothing except the memory of Giovanni’s voice, dripping with authority:
A king never fears what’s his, Santo.
I shake my head hard, rejecting it, rejecting him, but the echo still clings to my skin.
My hands are shaking.
I can’t stay here.
If I keep sitting in this room, breathing this air, feeling the ghosts press in around me, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
I rise slowly, every muscle tight with a resolve that feels ancient, inevitable.
This isn’t a choice anymore.
It’s instinct.
