And then there he is.
No collar. No hesitation. Just that terrible calm—the kind men wear when they’ve already chosen a grave and decided it isn’t theirs.
He walks toward Carlo like the distance between them isn’t mined with bullets. Like it isn’t a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. As if nothing in this room has permission to stop him.
I’ve seen Santino soft.
In the confessional, when his voice went thin around my name.In the courtyard, when his hands hovered like he didn’t trust himself not to break me.
This man?
This isn’t the priest.
This is Giovanni’s heir.A weapon in a tailored shadow.A blade that learned how to pray.
My stomach knots—not because I think I’m going to die. The idea perished within hours, inside a chamber lacking windows, with men who treat pain like normal business.
I feel sick because he’s here.
He’s offering them everything — his life,his future,his soul — if they’ll take it.
For me.
“Santino…” My voice leaks out before I can cage it. Thin. Fractured. A prayer to a God who never answered me once.
“Don’t.”
The word hits dead air. Too small to matter.
He doesn’t look at me.Not even for a breath.
His eyes are on Carlo—unyielding—even when a guard shoves the muzzle higher into my spine.
That terrifies me more than the steel warming into my skin.
Because I know that look.
I grew up around men like him. Men with blood stitched into their last names. Men who stopped being sons and became weather.
It’s the face of a man who’s done pretending he might still be saved.
My heart slams against my ribs like it wants out.
I shake my head hard enough that heat spears my skull.
No.
If he looks at me—if he lets me in—he’ll break.And if he breaks, Carlo will kill him.
So he doesn’t.
He keeps his stare locked on the devil in front of him like he’s already chosen which hell to drag him into.
Carlo’s voice slides through the space, lazy and razor-edged. “You came alone.”
Santino doesn’t blink. “I came ready.”
The words hit harder than any fist tonight.
