Sharpens.
Cold floods where fire used to live.
I see it all now—the twitch of Carlo’s trigger finger…The swallow in his throat…The fear of wearing a mask of confidence.
He thinks the truth will save him.
Giovanni taught me what truth really does.
I move.
Not fast.
Final.
I slap my arm inward, just enough to spoil his aim. The shot screams wild and detonates steel behind us.
Then I’m inside him.
My knee drives into his gut with the sound of something breaking that should not break. All his air leaves in one ugly rush.
My elbow follows—bone against bone—crunching across his face.
His head snaps sideways.
The gun skids across the metal floor with a useless, pleading clatter.
Carlo collapses.
Not dead.
Wheezing.
Spitting blood.
He crashes to his knees and claws at air like a man drowning in God’s dry land.
I stand over him and feel nothing.
No anger.No sorrow.No confusion.
Only precision.
“You’re right,” I murmur.
He tilts his face toward mine—eyes glassy, mouth ruined, hope flickering weak and stupid.
“What?” he rasps.
“I’m no priest.”
The words settle into place like a blade in bone.
Not an apology.
A verdict.
Silence swells between us.
