I step down from the altar.
My heel hits marble with a crack that sounds like a verdict.
“If I become king,” I whisper, low enough that it’s more to the wood and stone than to him, “it’ll be because you made me, Father. Not God.”
Not Giovanni either.
Them. All of them.
Every adult who taught us how to sin and then acted surprised when the lesson stuck.
I descend the steps, each one stripping something off me—priest, confessor, dutiful son. By the time my feet hit the main aisle, what’s left feels sharper.
Heir.
Judge.
Executioner, if I have to be.
The air shifts.
At first I think it’s just my pulse roaring in my ears, but then I hear it—muffled, bleeding through the heavy wooden doors.
Voices.
Raised.
Familiar.
I stop dead.
Romeo.
His tone is unmistakable, even blurred by distance and wood. That edged humor sharpened into a weapon, the way his voice drops when he’s really pissed, forcing you to lean in like that’s another form of control.
Another voice slices through his.
Dante.
Angrier than I’ve heard him in years.
The words don’t come through clean, just fractured pieces — “don't lie to me. "“You think I don’t notice.”“Shut the fuck up.”—
But it’s enough.
They’re not fighting about a missed dinner. Not about a shipment.
They’re fighting about truth.
My pulse spikes, hammering against my ribs like it wants out.
Miguel looks toward the doors, worry creasing deeper into his face. “Santino—”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
I don’t look back.
I start down the aisle alone, the same path I walked at my father’s funeral. Same church. Same air. Same weight on my shoulders as invisible hands trying to press me into the floor.
