I step closer until there’s barely air between us.
My hand rises before I think better of it, fingers curving around her jaw. Blood and grime smear her skin where I touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
She leans into my palm like it’s the safest place in this whole rotting building.
“But you—” My thumb skims the line of her cheek, over dried tears and a smear of someone else’s red. A flash of her with the gun in both hands detonates behind my eyes—shoulders braced, eyes burning as she puts a bullet into the man aiming at my spine. “You came back for me.”
“You fought for me,” I say, the words scraping out of places I don’t open. “You saved me.”
My voice cracks on the last word.
Fuck.
The sound is small, but in this silence it hits like a shot. Everything inside me tightens, because I don’t slip like that. Not in front of anyone.
Not even in front of God.
“There hasn’t been a single day in my life,” I force out, “where someone chose me over their fear.”
Giovanni chose the empire.The church chose the story.Everyone else chose survival.
Pia chose me.
Her breath trembles, warm against my mouth. Tears gloss her eyes, but they don’t fall. She’s too stubborn. Too hard-won.
“What are you saying?” she whispers.
I don’t answer with words yet.
I lean in, closing the last inch, and press my forehead to hers.
Our noses brush. Her lashes tick against my skin. I feel every ragged breath she drags in, every hitch, every spike in her pulse through the thin distance between our chests. She smells like gun smoke and sweat and the faint ghost of whatever she wore the first night she walked into my church and lied to my face.
“I am yours,” I tell her.
The statement lodges in my ribs, heavy as any vow I’ve ever made at an altar.
“Not the Church’s. Not Giovanni’s. Not anyone’s.”
My thumb slides down, finding the soft bow of her lower lip. I trace it once, slowly, feeling the shiver that rips through her.
Her eyes shine. “Santino…”
“I swear loyalty to you, Pia.” The words are knife-sharp, absolute. “Whatever comes next—death, family, war, all of it—I don’t face it alone. We face it together.”
Her chin wobbles. She blinks hard, one tear breaking free and slicing a clean line through the dirt on her cheek.
“That’s not how this world works,” she breathes, even as she leans closer. “People like us don’t get—”
“I don’t give a fuck what people like us are supposed to get,” I cut in. “I’m done letting dead men decide what I owe and who I belong to.”
Her lips tremble under my thumb.
“Say it again,” she whispers, like she’s asking for a sin.
“I am yours,” I repeat, slower. “Whether you want the blessing or the curse.”
She exhales like I just reached into her chest and squeezed.
