Not the boy who slid through life smiling.
The man who tried to save his family and destroyed it anyway.
Exactly how Giovanni raised us.
“You should hate me,” Romeo says.
I exhale.
Long.Jagged.
“I don’t.”
He looks at me like I slapped him. “Don’t fuck with me,” he whispers.
I don’t raise my voice.I don’t soften it either.
“Hate would be easy,” I say. “Hate would let me sleep. Hate would give me permission to put a bullet between your eyes and tell myself I fixed something.”
He swallows hard.
“And you won’t?” he asks.
I take one more step closer. So close I can smell the smoke on his breath. The fear under his skin.
“I won’t,” I say.
Because you weren’t cruel.Because you weren’t hungry for power.Because you were weak.
And weakness is the most Rivas sin there is.
“You fucked up,” I continue. “Spectacularly. You opened a door you didn’t know how to close, and people died on the other side of it.”
He nods as if every word is a blade.
“But you didn’t do it because you wanted him dead. You did it because you were trying to keep the rest of us alive.”
Silence chews at the space between us.
Romeo stares at the ground like it might open and take him if he begs hard enough.
“I didn’t mean to be the villain,” he whispers.
I don’t answer right away.
Because neither did Giovanni.Neither did I.
And that’s the worst part.
I reach out and grab the back of Romeo’s neck.
Not violent.Not gentle.
Unavoidable.
I lean closer.
“You don’t get to pretend you’re not responsible,” I tell him quietly. “And you don’t get to pretend you’re not family either.”
