“Because it was wrong,” I bite out. “Because he was scapegoated. Because he didn’t deserve to die for another man’s sin.”
Silence stretches.Then, softly:
“You sound like you know that for sure.”
I flinch.
The ledgers flash behind my eyes.The red mark.The note about a son killing a king.
“I know enough,” I say, each word scraping my throat. “Enough to know he didn’t deserve what he got.”
Another tremor of breath from her side. Then:
“Thank you.”
Two words.And my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.
I spread my fingers against the steel, palm flattening as if I could reach her through force of will alone.
“Pia,” I say, voice stripped raw, “listen to me. You’re not alone there. As long as I’m breathing, you’re not abandoned. Do you understand?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Then I feel it—the faintest thud against my hand.
She’s mirroring me.
Palm to palm.Steel between us.But the impact hits skin-to-skin.
“I hear you,” she whispers.
And for the first time since I opened Giovanni’s vault, I let the truth break through the last piece of restraint I’ve been holding onto.
“I’m not leaving you,” I murmur, forehead pressed hard against the door. “Not now. Not ever.”
Her breathing steadies—still too sharp, but no longer spiraling.
And in the dark, with my father’s sins on one side and her father’s blood on the other, I realize I’ve just made a promise I can’t take back.
Santino’s Confession: The Priest Falls Further
My palms stay pressed to the cold vault door, fingers spread wide as if I can hold her steady through six inches of steel. My forehead rests against it, breath fogging in uneven bursts, each exhale colder than the last.
I should be trying to force the door open again.I should be searching the tunnels for tools, leverage, anything.I should be thinking like a Rivas, like a man raised to solve things with violence and strategy and unforgiving efficiency.
Instead, all my thoughts funnel into one truth.The one I’ve been choking on since the moment I saw her turn pale in that alley.The truth that’s been scraping the inside of my ribs raw.
“I killed tonight,” I murmur.
The words scrape out of me like they’re cut from bone.
On her side of the door, she inhales—sharp, almost silent—but I feel it.I feel everything she does through this barrier: fear, shock, trust, that trembling thread of connection neither of us is ready to name.
I swallow hard, forcing more out before I can bury it again.
“For you,” I say. “And I wasn’t sorry.”
My voice breaks.
