“Of course I did.” My body remembers before my mind does. “When he was in a good mood, this was where he ruled. When he wasn’t…”
I stop myself.
“I learned where the shadows live.”
How do we get in? She asks.
I stop in front of the painting — some limp-wristed martyr staring up like my father ever worshipped suffering.
“Three knuckles left of his holy face.”
My fingers find a flaw in the wood. Press. Twist.
Nothing.
For a half second, I think the bastard finally won — that time ate the last secret before I could.
Then a soft click answers from the wall.
The panel slides open.
The safe sits inside, unassuming and black — the kind people store passports in.
Giovanni kept souls.
Pia steps closer. “You remember the code.”
“It’s carved in.” My mouth goes dry. “Some things don’t come out.”
Giovanni’s birthday.Zina’s.My baptism.
The keypad beeps tiredly and slowly.
Green.
The door unlocks with a dull final sound, like a coffin shifting.
Inside is all order.
Of course, it is.
A stack of black notebooks, elastic bands intact.A flash drive scraped bare of any name.And right in front — placed like an accusation — a single envelope.
Cream paper. Crisp edges.
My father’s handwriting.
ROMEO.
My pulse slams into my teeth.
Pia goes still beside me. “That’s him.”
“That’s my brother.”
I reach in.
The envelope weighs wrong — heavier than paper, lighter than guilt.
