Because if I look at Santino right now, I won’t go.
And if I don’t go—
I will finish destroying him.
In the dark behind my eyelids, the war inside me ignites.
My heart drags me toward Santino.To his hands.To his mouth.To the way he breathes my name like God might hear it and strike him down for it.To the way his body wraps around mine like he’s willing to walk into hell just to make sure I don’t walk there alone.
My logic slams in the opposite direction.
It screams exit routes and bloodlines and fallout.
It tells me this doesn’t end softly.It tells me this family doesn’t get a fairy tale.It tells me loving him is a loaded gun pointed at a child.
My mission waits in the back of my skull like a fixed blade.
Revenge.Evidence.My father’s face every time I close my eyes.The sins that didn’t die with him.
And then—
Guido.
Not as a symbol.Not as a pawn.
As a boy.
Smaller hands.Sharper fear.Eyes too old for his face.
Guido standing in a doorway, looking at me like I’m the next coffin his family will have to carry.
That’s when it settles.
The war goes quiet.
I open my eyes.
Santino stands facing Emiliano, furious and righteous and bleeding something he doesn’t even know he’s allowed to lose.
I take a step forward.
Not toward Santino.
Toward exile.Toward grief.Toward the only choice that doesn’t damn a child.
“I’ll leave,” I whisper.
The words barely exist.
They scrape out of my throat like broken glass.
Santino stands still.
“Pia—” His breath hitches. “Don’t.”
It isn’t an order.
It’s a raw plea.
