I can’t stop thinking about what happens next.
What I’ll say, what he’ll do.Or what Matteo will do.Because I’ve seen what he becomes.And I’m not sure if I’m leading him into a conversation or a war.
He hasn’t let go of my hand once.His grip is steady, solid in a way that should comfort.But I can’t stop wondering if he can feel it.The tremble in my fingers.The way my pulse keeps skipping like it’s trying to outrun what’s ahead.
The road starts to curve.The trees start to shift.A subtle change, but I feel it in my chest.Like my body recognizes this place before my eyes do.
The branches hang lower.The air feels still.Like the forest itself is holding its breath.
I know we’re close.Too close.
And no matter how tightly I hold Matteo’s hand, I don’t know if it’s enough to keep me from coming undone.
I hold my breath the second the laneway comes into view up ahead.There it is, that goddamn silo.Rusted to shit, slouched like it’s been waiting years to finally collapse in on itself.Half-swallowed by brush, forgotten by time.But still I remember it.
And just beyond it, far into the distance, barely visible through the snarl of overgrowth I see it.
The house.
His safehouse.
Small and sun-bleached.Tilted, ready to sink into the earth and vanish.Tucked so deep in the trees, it looks half-swallowed already.A place where the lies always outnumbered the furniture.
“That’s it,” I mutter, my voice tight.
Matteo doesn’t speak.He just pulls onto the dirt track, calm as sin, driving with the kind of focus that says he’s done this a thousand times.Built for this kind of quiet war.Born in it.Raised by it.
A little ways down, he veers the truck off the path, tires crunching softly as he eases us into a dip behind a line of thick trees.Out of sight.Invisible.The kind of hiding spot you don’t find unless someone tells you where the bodies are buried.
He kills the engine.
And the silence.It hits like a punch.Swallows us whole.No music.No voices.Just the low thrum of adrenaline and the deafening quiet of too late to turn back now.
We don’t speak.Just sit there, like if we move too fast, the whole thing might blow wide open.
Matteo leans forward, his movements precise as he grabs the binoculars from beneath the seat.He angles them toward the clearing, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene.
“Front door is shut,” he mutters, voice low, focused.“Curtains drawn.One truck behind the shed.”He scans the perimeter.“No guards.No lookouts.No posted men.If he’s got anyone, they’re inside.”Matteo doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the binoculars, he’s waiting for the next piece of the puzzle to click into place.
I nod, throat dry, the weight of it all pressing on me.“He really doesn’t think anyone’s coming.”
Matteo drops the binoculars into his lap.His eyes flicker with something dark, a mix of anger and disgust.
“Especially not you,” he says.“He buried you the second he gave you up.And he sure as fuck never thought you’d come back from the dead to knock on his fucking door.”He lets out a long breath.“If you don’t want to go in there,” he says facing me, his voice low.“I’ll do it myself.I’ll walk through that door, and I’ll put a bullet in the fucker’s head before he even gets a word out.No hesitation.I’ll end it, Em.If you want me to.”
He’s not asking because he doubts me.He’s asking because he wants to carry it for me.All of it.
I stare at him, at the man who’s been to hell and still wants to stand between me and the flames.
“I need to do this, Matteo,” I say.“I need to do it for me.”
He nods.“Then let’s end it.”
We exit the truck in silence, the doors clicking shut behind us.
Matteo checks the gun on his lower back.It’s quick, practiced, then he falls into step beside me.He’s close enough to protect me.
We can’t take the road.That’d be suicide.Especially if my father has eyes on the property.
