Pia’s breath behind my shoulder.
My pulse everywhere else.
“And I will never be my father.”
Carlo opens his mouth.
He never finds the word.
My fist caves into his jaw.
One blow.
Total.
The sound is deeper than before.
Hollow.
Finished.
His body pitches sideways like God cut the strings, and he slams into the metal in a useless heap.
Not dead.
Unconscious.
Breathing.
Alive enough to confess.
For now.
I stand there, chest heaving, blood tracking down my arm and dripping from my elbow like a quiet clock counting something ugly.
My knuckles pulse with the impact.
Behind me, Pia doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t need to.
I feel her there like a heat on my spine.
Alive.
Watching.
Choosing.
I close my eyes for exactly one second.
Not to pray.
To decide.
Giovanni’s shadow stretches long where my future should be.
Carlo tried to cut me with it.
