We hang there in the space between.
The priest.
The intruder.
My chest tightens. I force my hands away from my hair and press my palms flat to the stone at my sides, like I need something to hold me down before I try to climb into his body just to feel anchored again.
“Santino.”
His name cracks on the way out of my mouth. It tastes like confession and begging and something ugly I don’t want to name.
His eyes close.
Not in prayer.
In surrender.
“You saw him,” he says, voice low and raw, like he’s been chewing on glass since we left the tunnels. “You saw his face.”
It’s not a question.
It’s not an accusation.
It’s worse.
It’s grief strangling his throat.
I swallow, and it feels like I’m choking on that image all over again—Guido’s pupils blown wide, lips parted, breathing like the air itself hurt him.
“I…” The word disintegrates. I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah. I saw.”
Santino opens his eyes and, fuck, I almost wish he hadn’t.
He’s not the controlled, cold bastard who dragged me out of danger. Not the man who pins me to walls and talks about God with his hand between my thighs.
He looks ruined.
“He looked at you like—” His voice splinters. He glances away, jaw working, like he’s fighting himself not to spit the rest out. When he looks back, there’s no shield left. “Like you were another ghost sent to finish what the last one started.”
My stomach drops.
Another ghost.
Bella.
Giovanni.
All the dead that haunt this family—and now me, slotted right in with them.
“I didn’t mean to scare him,” I say, and it sounds pathetic even to my own ears. Thin. Useless. Like a bandage slapped over a bullet wound.
His mouth twists.
The laugh that comes out isn’t amused. It’s a jagged exhale, like the sound tears his lungs on the way up.
“No,” he murmurs. “You didn’t mean to.”
Every syllable lands like a blow.
