Not a question.A verdict.
I feel exposed, stripped bare under that gaze—like he can see every lie I rehearsed, every sin I buried, every scar I tried to hide beneath layers of calm.
“Yes,” I whisper. “He’s from the faction that killed my father.”
The words slice through the air like a confession ripped out of the center of my chest.
Santino’s grip on Rocco’s throat tightens so abruptly Rocco’s feet lift off the ground.
I flinch.Not because I want Santino to stop — but because a part of me, a dark fractured part, wants him to finish it.
Rocco’s hands claw at Santino’s wrist, fingers trembling. He tries to gasp, to speak, to bargain—something. But Santino doesn’t give him enough breath to form a word.
The veins in his forearm stand out, taut and pulsing. His tightly strung shoulders make me feel the tension from feet away.
Rocco kicks. Weak. Useless.
Santino doesn’t glance at him.He’s still staring at me.
And it’s that—the unwavering attention, the silent promise, the brutal loyalty—that shatters something inside me I didn’t know was still intact.
My legs weaken.My chest aches.My vision blurs at the edges.
I should be terrified of this version of him.The monster Giovanni Rivas forged with his own hands.
But I’m not.
I’m drawn to him.To the violence.To the certainty.To the way he didn’t hesitate to put himself between me and death.
Something dark cracks open between us — a shared understanding, a shared sin, a shared hunger for vengeance.
It binds us.Irreversibly.
Rocco wheezes, the sound pathetic and fading. His eyes roll back. His boots scrape uselessly against brick.
I should tell Santino to let go.I should say his name.I should stop this before he crosses a line he can’t return from.
But when I open my mouth — nothing comes out.
Because the truth is terrifying:
I’m not choosing mercy.I’m choosing Santino.I’m choosing the man whose rage feels like protection.The man who didn’t blink at violence done on my behalf.The man whose darkness recognizes my own.
He shifts his stance slightly, tightening his hold on Rocco, and the alley seems to tilt around us—as if the night itself senses the choice forming in my chest.
The world holds its breath.Rocco fades into a blur.
And the only thing I can see clearly — the only thing my body recognizes as inevitable — the only truth my soul leans toward—
is Santino Rivas.
Not the priest.Not the saint.Not the man pretending he doesn’t want me.
But the man who would spill blood for me without looking away.
My voice escapes in barely a breath.
“Santino…”
