“Ciro.”
A pause.
Then—
“The quiet one.”
“The one who never raises his voice.”
He stopped pacing abruptly. Shoulders tense.
Fists clenched so tightly the knuckles drained of color.
“Is it because I’m short?” he snapped, turning slightly. “Because I don’t smile pretty when I snap necks?”
The last words cracked—not from weakness, but from something deeper.
A frustration that had been sitting in his chest for years and finally found a way out.
Silence followed.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
His chest rose and fell unevenly as he stood there, caught between anger and something dangerously close to hurt.
Then, slowly—he straightened.
Rolled his shoulders.
Like he was putting the weight of the moment back where it belonged.
Burying it. Locking it away.
“Renzo.”
The name came from me.
He whipped around instantly.
“What!”
The word snapped through the room like a gunshot.
His anger redirected.
His dark eyes burned—sharp, daring me to flinch.
I didn’t.
I held his gaze.
“Can I come with you?”
Silence.
Then—a short laugh.
