They don’t have to.
“She brought the blood. She brought the lies.”
Each one lands with surgical calm.
My hands curl at my sides.
Not in surrender.
In restraint.
I want to scream that he doesn’t know me. That he doesn’t get to stand in this churchyard like some fucking oracle and sentence me for a crime he didn’t even witness.
I want to rip the judgment right out of his mouth.
I say nothing.
Because Guido’s eyes won’t let me.
I see them again—wet and wide, lips trembling, like he already knows he belongs to a grave he didn’t dig.
And I hate myself, because part of me knows Emiliano isn’t wrong.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I whisper.
It crawls out hoarse. Small.
A child’s lie wearing a woman’s voice.
Emiliano tilts his head like he’s listening more carefully now.
Like he’s entertained.
Like I just made this easier.
“And yet you did,” he replies, almost kindly.
I hate it slices deeper than if he’d snarled it. I hate he doesn’t sound angry.
Just… precise.
The words sink into my chest like weights.
Not because I agree—
but because I don’t get to pretend otherwise.
Santino stiffens in front of me, like Emiliano just drew a gun.
“You don’t get to condemn her,” he snaps. “Not here. Not like this. You’re not God.”
Emiliano finally turns his gaze to Santino.
Slowly.Deliberately.
When their eyes meet, something shifts in the air between them—like static right before a lightning strike.
“No,” Emiliano says simply. “I’m not.”
