The sound reverberates into her chamber. It must echo inside those sound-dampening walls—rolling over her like thunder in a tomb.
Because I know exactly what this room is.
Giovanni’s perfect little nightmare.
No windows.No ventilation except what he allowed.Reinforced walls meant to swallow screams whole.Aplace where men confessed things they’d never done.A place where they begged for mercy they never received.
And she’s in there.
I flatten my palms against the cold door again, fighting the instinct to rip it apart with sheer will. “Pia!”
Her reply is faint—barely a vibration through steel—but the tremor in her voice is unmistakable.
It guts me.
“Breathe,” I say, voice rough, nearly breaking. “Do you hear me? Breathe.”
I rest my forehead against the metal again, my breath uneven. “I’m here.”
It’s not reassurance.
It’s a fucking vow.
The rage in me tightens, molten and blinding. Giovanni designed this chamber like a god crafting a punishment. He tested these walls. Adjusted thickness. Calculated the acoustics of suffering.
And now his sins are wrapped around her.
“Son of a bitch,” I breathe, not sure if it’s aimed at him, the bastard who locked this door, or at myself—for letting her step into this damn church alone.
The steel burns against my palms as my fingers spread wider, like I could reach her through force alone.
“Pia.”
For a moment—nothing.
Then I feel it.
A faint, almost imperceptible pressure on the other side of the door. Her palm. Meeting mine.
Separating us are inches of steel, bloodlines, lies—yet somehow, this contact hits harder than any blow I’ve ever taken.
Her breath hitches. The sound is small, but carries through metal and memory.
My own breaks in answer.
My voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “I’ve got you.”
My fingers splay, imagining hers doing the same. The entire world narrows to that single point of pressure—her hand against mine, separated only by steel we both want to rip apart.
For a breath, the torture chamber, the blood on the floor, the sins etched into these walls—none of it exists.
Just her.
Just me.
Just six inches of steel failing to mute what’s happening between us.
“I swear to God,” I murmur, forehead pressed harder to the door, “I will get you out.”
