Romeo sees it. His chin lifts, eyes slicing straight through me.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “There it is.”
Before I can speak, he slips from my grip, brushing past me like he owns the room.
And I know — this chapter, this fight, this unraveling between us?
It’s only starting.
The Accusations Begin
I’m pacing before I even realize I’ve moved—tight, restless strides across the crypt floor, boots scraping old stone. The air down here is colder than upstairs. Colder than the alley. Colder than the look Romeo gave me when he saw Pia’s legs wrapped around my waist.
I try to breathe like a priest.Like a man of God.Like the version of myself everyone pretends still exists.
But with Romeo?
That part of me dies fast.
“What were you doing out there?” I demand.
Romeo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t straighten. Doesn’t offer even a fake attempt at respect. He leans back against the column like he’s bored, arms crossing loosely over his chest.
“Following you,” he says with a humorless laugh.
“Lying,” I snap. “You were watching her. Why?”
Romeo tilts his head, playing it off, but I catch the tension tightening along his shoulders—coiled, deliberate.
“Because,” he says slowly, “you were two seconds away from getting yourself fucking killed.”
I stop mid-stride.
“And if you do,” Romeo adds, pushing off the column, voice flattening, “guess who gets blamed for your body hitting a morgue slab?”
My blood turns cold.
He doesn’t say her name.
He doesn’t have to.
Pia.
“And then,” he continues, “we start a war we’re not ready for.”
My breath comes sharp and uneven, too loud in my ears.
Romeo’s tone softens—not gentle, just honest in a way that lands like a gut punch.
“She’s not our enemy, San. Stop acting like she is.”
The truth of it hits harder than I expect.
But behind that blunt honesty — I hear the shadowed echo he doesn’t voice.
And you’re not acting like a priest.
I step forward.
