The tunnel goes silent.Not the usual silence — the dangerous kind.The kind that presses against your eardrums, thick and expectant, like the air itself is bracing for what comes next.
I freeze, every muscle locking.
Then I hear it.
A footstep.
Soft.Slow.Measured.
Too controlled to be accidental.Too intentional to be harmless.
My breath catches.
Another step.Closer.
My fingers clamp around the parchment, crumpling Giovanni’s accusation into a trembling ball in my palm.
A Rivas betrayed me.
Not the moment to think about that.Not when someone else is down here.
I blow out the lantern.
The flame dies instantly.
Darkness swallows the tunnel—heavy, suffocating, absolute.
My pulse slams against my ribs. I press my back against the cold stone, letting it anchor me. If it comes down to running, I need direction. A plan. A miracle.
Another step.
Then another.
The sound warps in the tunnels—damp stone twisting the distance so I can’t tell if he’s three feet away… or thirty.
Then—
A flicker.
A small, sharp glow at the end of the corridor.
The scrape of metal.
A lighter flares.
The glow is weak, but enough to outline him.
And my blood turns to ice.
Not Santino.Not Romeo.Not Dante.Not Guido.
Not anyone who should be beneath this church.
He’s older.Broad shoulders. A relaxed stance that screams predator—not visitor.
And he’s smiling.
Not kindly.Not amused.
