Pia makes a quiet sound behind me. It is barely audible.
Like breath tearing.Like something caving inward.
I step forward automatically.
Slow.
Hands open.
Not to hurt.Not to threaten.
To beg.
“Guido,” I say, softer than I learned how to be. “She’s not what you think.”
But he isn’t listening to my voice.
He’s listening to Giovanni.
Always Giovanni.
His eyes drop.
To the knife in my hand.
To the blood slicking my sleeves.
To the dark shape crumpled half-hidden behind us that used to breathe and doesn’t anymore.
The fear on his face turns feral.
“You’re leaving with her,” he whispers.
It isn’t loud.It doesn’t need to be.
“You’re leaving us. Like Dad said you would.”
The word guts me.
Us.
Not him.Not the family.Us.
Guido.Romeo.Everything I tried to bury under prayers.
“No,” I breathe. “Guido, I would never—”
“You already are!”
His voice shreds the tunnel.
“You’re standing there with a knife like you’re—like you’re some monster and you’re—” his throat snaps closed, “you’re choosing her.”
Pia doesn’t move.
Doesn’t defend.
Doesn’t reach for me.
