Wrong math.
Santino doesn’t advance.
He hunts.
Every step measured.
He never looks at Carlo.
He looks at me.
And something inside my chest caves so hard I almost black out from relief.
“Santino,” I breathe.
His mouth moves.
No sound.
Then he sees my wrists.
The blood.
My face.
The change is immediate.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But terminal.
He drags a breath like he’s about to tear the ceiling loose—and what comes out isn’t my name. Not a prayer.
It’s a roar.
Not human.
Not holy.
The air bows to it. The men still standing freeze as death brushes their necks.
Santino takes one swift step, and they scatter.
Run.
Trip.
Fall.
One doesn’t make it past the threshold before Santino hauls him back by the collar and drops him with something that looks like mercy compared to what he deserves.
And then—
Nothing.
No more shots.
