Every smile turns suspect. Every memory drips poison.
“Say it,” I demand.
Miguel’s fingers twist together in his lap, knuckles whitening like he’s praying over his own execution.
“He said your brother had changed,” Miguel whispers. “That ambition had turned into hunger. That loyalty had rotted into entitlement.”
I shake my head once, sharply.
“No,” I say. “You’re wrong.”
Miguel flinches again but doesn’t stop.
“He said the crown had already settled on your brother’s head,” he murmurs. “Even while he was still alive.”
I turn away, dragging a hand through my hair hard enough to hurt.
“What brother?” I snarl, “Which brother?”
Miguel hesitates.
Too long.
Something inside me fractures clean.
I whip back toward him, rage erupting without a filter.
“Enough,” I bark, the word booming off stone. “Say the name or you’re complicit. I am not walking out of this church pretending you didn’t just set my entire family on fire.”
Miguel folds inward, shoulders curling like the weight finally crushed him.
Then—
“The night Giovanni died,” he forces out, eyes bright with unshed tears, “he said one name more than once.”
My heart hammers so violently I can feel it everywhere—skull, jaw, fingertips, walls.
“Whose?” I whisper.
The church seems to inhale and hold it.
Candles flicker. Shadows lean in.
Miguel lifts his gaze to mine.
And I know—whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to kill something in me that doesn’t grow back.
Romeo, the Suspect
Miguel’s answer is almost gentle.
Almost.
“Romeo.”
The name does not explode.
It collapses.
