Something detonates behind my ribs—black, vicious, feral.
I don’t pray.I don’t think.I don’t hesitate.
I wrap both hands around his throat and drive him into the stone.
He chokes, claws at my arms, boots scraping against the floor. His nails rake down my forearms. I barely feel it. His curses spray my face, flecking my cheek with blood.
I squeeze.
Harder.
His airway collapses beneath my palms. His pulse thrums frantically under my thumbs. His eyes bulge, veins rising beneath the skin like cracked blue lightning. He slams a fist weakly into my ribs—once, twice—then falters.
My grip tightens.
No one touches her.No one threatens her.No one puts a blade near her and walks away breathing.
His movements grow sloppy.Then slower.Then still.
His eyes roll back.His mouth slackens.His body jerks once—twice — and stops.
Silence devours the chapel.
I don’t move.My hands stay clamped around a dead man’s throat, fingers sunk deep enough to bruise bone.
My breath tears rough through my chest, too loud in the stillness, too human for what I just did.
Behind me, Pia whispers my name.
“Santino…”
I can’t look at her.Not yet.If I turn around now, I’ll see exactly what I’ve become.
Giovanni’s son.His legacy.His monster.
And the worst part?
It felt good.
My heart hammers, adrenaline flooding me, vibrating through muscle and bone like a storm I can’t outrun.
I killed for her.I would do it again.
And something in me—something I should fear—wants more.
Finally, I release Rocco.His head thuds against the stone with a hollow, final sound that shakes through me.
My hands hover above him—trembling, blood-slick, unrecognizable.
Pia’s uneven breaths fill the quiet behind me.
I close my eyes.
There’s no going back now.
The Moment He Realizes He Can’t Go Back
Panting, I finally loosen my grip.
