Rocco wheezes, clawing at Santino’s arm, fingers scrambling for leverage. He reaches for the blade in his pocket—
He doesn’t get the chance.
Santino seizes Rocco’s wrist and twists—fast, efficient, cruel.
The snap is loud.
Pain erupts across Rocco’s face. I jump at the sound, breath catching in my throat.
Santino doesn’t flinch.Not even an inch.
He is silent violence incarnate — a storm in human form,a weapon forged by Giovanni Rivas himself.
He presses harder, pinning Rocco by the throat. His eyes—God, his eyes—burn with something primal and unrestrained. No mask. No priest. No limits.
Just a man ready to kill.
“Who sent you?” he demands.
Rocco’s only answer is a wad of spit aimed at Santino’s face.
“Go to hell, padre.”
Santino slams him again.
Harder.
Brick dust shakes loose from the wall, drifting like ash. Rocco groans—thin, broken—his legs kicking weakly against the stone.
My breath stutters. My pulse hammers so violently I feel it in my fingertips.
I should feel horrified.I should be screaming.I should run.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because, God help me—
I’m not horrified.I’m captivated.
It’s not just the violence.It’s the reason behind it.The way he didn’t hesitate.The way he stepped between me and danger likehe was born for it.The way he looked at Rocco, like murder was mercy compared to letting him touch me.
Santino leans closer to Rocco, voice low and deadly calm.
“You come into my church,” he says, each word dripping with promised destruction, “and you hunt a woman under my roof?”
Rocco tries to speak, but only a strangled rasp comes out.
Santino’s jaw flexes.
“That was your last mistake.”
Another slam.Another groan.
I shiver. The alley feels too small, too loaded, like the air itself is crackling from the force of Santino’s rage.
Rocco’s gaze darts to me—desperate, hateful, pleading for mercy he doesn’t deserve.
