Fourteen words.
Neat.
Certain.
Cruel.
The next story is his.And we are coming.
The truth hits with surgical precision.
This isn’t about us.
This isn’t even about Santino.
This is about Romeo.
“They’re warning you,” I whisper.
It comes out wrong.
Thin.
I already know.
Santino doesn’t look at me.
“No,” he says.
Then he lifts his head.
His eyes cut through the windows, through the trees, through the night—toward the invisible road threading back into blood and legacy and fire.
“They’re warning Romeo.”
The way he says it chills me more than fear ever could.
Not soft.
Not broken.
Measured.
A man who has already chosen violence if that’s the price.
“They’re coming for him,” he murmurs. “And they’re not bluffing this time.”
The wind slams against the windows—loud, demanding, alive.
I grab his arm.
“Santino.”
My voice cracks the way it always does when I’m about to beg.
He turns.
This is not the man who kneeled.
