Like a condemned man guarding the very thing destroying him.
Our eyes lock.
And it’s unbearable.
Because I see exactly what he sees.
The woman he touches like salvation.The woman he kisses.The woman he lets inside places he only ever gave to God.
And then—
The woman who made his little brother’s face collapse tonight.
The woman who wears death like perfume.
The woman who walked onto sacred ground and left blood in her footprints.
“I didn’t come here to destroy your family,” I whisper.
The words scrape my throat bloody on the way out.
They don’t sound brave.
They sound desperate.
Santino’s jaw twitches.
Just once.
A fracture.
For half a second, his eyes soften.
And hope—
stupid, treacherous fucking hope—
reaches for me.
Then his face hardens again.
Stone to match the walls.
“Intent doesn’t erase impact,” he says.
The sentence settles on my chest like a coffin lid.
I drop my gaze.
Not in submission.
In surrender.
Because he’s right.
Because intent doesn’t tuck children into bed at night and erase the pictures burned into their skulls.
Because intent doesn’t give you clean hands when you’ve already dirtied a soul.
