Finally, his voice drops lower.
“You are with me.”
And God help me… I believe him.
Not because he’s a priest.Not because he’s a Rivas.Not because he can kill with his bare hands.
I believe him because something inside him broke open for me tonight.I watched it happen.Because I caused it.
And that truth sits heavy in my chest—sharp as the blade Rocco pressed against me.
He steps back, giving me space, giving himself space—like he needs distance to remember how to breathe. He drags a hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek without noticing.
He looks wrecked.
He looks dangerous.
He looks like a man terrified of himself.
And somehow… that scares me less than the thought of him letting go of me again.
I grip the edge of my doorway, steadying myself.
“Go inside,” he says quietly. “I’ll stay until you lock the door.”
It should sound like protection.
It feels like a promise.A warning.A confession all its own.
I step inside.Before I close the door, I look at him one last time.
The candlelight flickers across his bloodstained collar.His eyes track mine, dark and unreadable.
And I can’t tell if he saved me…or if I’ve dragged him somewhere he’ll never climb out of.
I close the door.
Inside Her Room, the Mask Cracks
The moment the door closes behind us, the silence changes shape.
Down in the tunnels, it was thick and heavy—full of echoes and fear and the sound of a man’s last breath.Up here in the cramped little room I pretend to live in, it feels tighter.Closer.Like the walls have been waiting to hear what we bring back with us.
Santino doesn’t step forward right away.
He stands just inside the threshold, one hand still gripping the doorknob like he’s unsure whether to stay or fucking bolt. The corridor light behind him slices a thin halo around his shoulders before the latch clicks and seals us in darkness lit only by the single lamp on my nightstand.
Then it’s just us.
His eyes sweep across the space—small bed, plain dresser, empty chair, nothing personal, nothing lived-in. The room a ghost would rent. A room for someone who plans to run.
I feel the moment he understands.
His gaze pauses on the bare dresser. The blank walls. The single bag shoved half under the bed.The vein near his temple pulses once. He’s reading me like Scripture he doesn’t trust, but knows is important.
“You live like someone who expects to run,” he murmurs.
My spine locks.
