Almost.
It’s wrong. Ruined. The sound of something feral breaking loose.
“So he suspected his own son,” I snarl. “And instead of facing it, he buried his filth under God’s floors and prayed we’d suffocate in silence.”
Miguel doesn’t argue.
Silence is his confirmation.
I drag a hand down my face. My palms are slick. My jaw aches from how hard I’ve been holding it shut.
Romeo.
The louder one.The charming one.The one who shielded Dante when things went ugly.The one who cracked jokes while I burned inside my skull.The one who kissed my mother’s forehead in her coffin.
The one who looked at Pia tonight like he’d finally spotted a threat worth measuring.
Is he the reason her father died?
Is he why mine did?
Is he the hand that struck the match and walked away smiling while we all burned?
My vision tunnels red.
I drop onto the pew hard, wood biting into my back.
I grip the edge until my knuckles bleach.
Something inside me comes loose.
Not grief.
Clarity.
Sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.
I’m not losing a brother.
I’m meeting an enemy who’s been wearing my blood like a disguise.
“I trusted him,” I whisper.
The words taste like rust.
Miguel does not interrupt.
Good.
“He slept down the hall from me,” I say. “He ate at my table. Prayed behind the same altar.”
My voice cuts thin.
“And all that time…”
I suck in a breath through my teeth.
“…he might’ve been digging graves.”
