One more sin.
If I keep this, I’m not just in his world—I’m his echo.
“My father died because Giovanni needed someone to take a bullet for him,” I whisper.
The words scrape my throat raw on the way out.
Santino’s jaw tightens—just a twitch—but I see it. I feel the air shift, heavy and electric, like I just dragged a ghost into the room and sat it between us.
“And my mother…” My voice shakes, then breaks. I force it back together. “She was leveraged. Giovanni used her to keep my father in line. He dangled her like a threat and a prize all at once. Smile pretty, obey, or watch her suffer.”
The memories hit hard—the sound of my mother crying through walls too thin to matter, my father’s voice low and desperate, Giovanni’s men in the doorway like they were family dropping by for coffee and execution orders.
“Your father destroyed my family long before I ever walked into your church,” I say.
The kitchen light hums above us like it’s listening.
There it is.
The root of everything.
My throat closes, but I push through it.
“And I still chose you anyway.”
That confession hurts worse than any knife I’ve taken.
Because it isn’t just about revenge. Not anymore. It’s about the part of me that could’ve kept hating Rivas blood and didn’t. The part that betrayed my own ghosts the second I let Santino touch me and didn’t flinch.
His eyes darken—storm, not rage. He doesn’t look away.
“I came into your world to ruin it,” I choke out. “To set it on fire from the inside and walk away while it burned.”
My fingers curl around the rosary like I could strangle it.
“And somewhere along the way, I realized I can’t fucking survive outside it without you.”
The admission tears something open in my chest. It feels pathetic and dangerous and truer than anything I’ve ever said.
“I don’t know when it happened,” I say, voice rough. “Maybe it was the night you bled all over that goddamn confessional because you wouldn’t let go of me. Maybe it was the first time you said my name like it was a prayer instead of a problem. Maybe it was tonight when you went to war with your own blood for me.”
Tears sting my eyes. I let them.
I’ve bled for less.
“If you hate me now,” I say, and the words shake, “say it. If you’re done, walk away. If you want me gone, I’ll leave tonight. I’ll disappear. You won’t have to confess that you were ever stupid enough to let me close.”
My chest heaves.
“But you deserve the truth, all of it. And now you have it.”
The safe house goes quiet in a way that feels hostile.
The old fridge ticks in the corner. A pipe knocks somewhere inside the walls. Outside, a car passes, tires hissing on wet pavement. Up here, there’s nothing but my heartbeat in my ears and the brutal stillness of the man standing across from me.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t curse.
