He shakes under my grip.
“Which one kills me?” he breathes.
I meet his eyes.
“Neither,” I say.
And in his face, I see it—
Fear.Relief.
And something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Santino Protects Romeo, and the Family Fractures
Romeo stares at me like I just told him the sky is green.
“You don’t?” he repeats, voice thin. “You don’t hate me?”
My hand is still on the back of his neck, fingers pressed into sweat-damp skin. His pulse hammers against my palm like it’s trying to outrun his body.
I shake my head once.
“I’m tired of being our father’s weapon,” I say.
The words come out low, flat, heavier than any threat I’ve ever used. Because they’re not aimed at him.
They’re aimed at the ghost living within both of us.
Wind cuts through what used to be the garden, rattling dead branches and the shredded remains of old prayer ribbons Zina tied here when she still believed wishes could beat bullets. The cracked Virgin watches us like she’s waiting to see which one of us falls first.
I step closer, lowering my voice so it doesn’t belong to anyone but him.
“If I expose you,” I say, “Dante will never forgive you. Guido will never trust you. Zina will see you as another knife in her back. Pia’s father will never rest. And Giovanni will win again—from the grave.”
Romeo swallows so hard I hear it.
His eyes shine under the gray light, raw and hunted. “So what are you going to do?” he asks.
I look back at the mansion.
Shattered windows gaping like broken teeth. Burn marks crawling up the stone. A kingdom rotting from the inside out because the man who built it loved control more than he loved any of us.
This house has seen enough blood.It’s still thirsty.
“I’m going to bury this,” I say.
His breath catches.
“For now.”
Romeo’s eyes widen. “You’d lie for me?”
“I’m not lying,” I answer. “I’m choosing what story the family survives.”
It tastes like blasphemy in my mouth. A former priest rewriting scripture.
