Bait.
Heavy. Familiar.
Everyone’s always loved turning me into that.
My heart doesn’t break.
It tightens.
Because I already know whose name sits in his mouth.
I play stupid anyway.
“For what?” I ask flatly. “You got rodents down here I’m supposed to distract?”
He rises with a stretch that cracks his spine. Smoke and cheap cologne trail behind him, layered over sweat and rot.
“For the Bishop,” he says. “Who else?”
Santino.
“You kidnapped the wrong nun,” I say. “He doesn’t chase women. He gives sermons.”
Carlo’s eyes light like I just handed him a confession.
“Come on,” he croons. “You think we don’t watch you on those cozy little cameras? Bishop of Blood suddenly gutting my men like dogs because some girl with sad eyes marks his altar?”
The air thins.
They know about the tunnels.
About the fight.
About the bodies.
Santino killed for me.
Not in holy rage.
In something darker.
Closer to what lives in my blood.
Carlo steps in close until his shadow swallows my lap. He bends down, face level with mine. I can see the scar carved along his jaw, yellowed fingertips, busted veins webbing his nose.
“Men like him always fall wrong,” he whispers. “And when they do… cities burn.”
His knuckles drag along the chair back.
Mocking.
“Santino Rivas,” he says. “Bring us the Bishop — or we feed him pieces of you.”
For one suspended heartbeat, I go hollow.
Then fire floods back in.
Not Santino.Not again.Not because of me.
