I love her.
Not the way men pray.The way men kill.
Carlo chuckles like he’s watching a show he paid extra for.
“Well,” he says. “Isn’t that touching?”
I don’t look at him.
If I tear my eyes off her, she might vanish again. Like she did in the street. Like I let her.
“Let her go,” I say.
My voice doesn’t shake.It could crack bones.
“I’m yours.”
Her head jerks up, hard.
“No,” Pia spits. “Don’t you fucking do this. Don’t—”
I take a step forward.
One slow stride.Then another.
The guards tighten. Guns lift a fraction. It doesn’t matter. The world has already rearranged itself; they’re not heavy enough to move it back.
“Take me,” I tell Carlo, still not looking at him. “Do whatever ceremonial bullshit makes you feel powerful. But she walks out of here.”
Her breathing changes. I see it in the rise of her chest. Feel it, like my lungs are moving to her rhythm instead of mine.
“Santino,” she says, softer now, pride losing a fight with terror. “I’m not worth this.”
I stop directly in front of her.
Close enough to smell her—blood, sweat, smoke, and that dark electricity that’s only ever been hers.
I lift my hands—not to surrender.
To touch.
But I don’t.
They’re watching.
So, I aim my voice where they can’t reach.
“You don’t decide what you’re worth,” I murmur.
Her eyes widen.
“I do.”
She swallows. Her mouth wobbles once, then clamps down in stubbornness.
“You idiot,” she whispers.
I nod.
