Something that didn’t hurt.
He moved with precision, unfolding me slowly, one leg at a time, adjusting my position so I was no longer twisted into a tight, protective curl.
He lifted a clean handkerchief from the kit and pressed it to my cheek.
The cloth came away almost immediately damp with tears I hadn’t even realized were falling—tears born of Renzo’s condemnation to that dark cell, of the searing pain from the bomb explosion, of Ciro’s baton striking my upper back with such force I could feel the bone beneath protest.
I couldn’t tell which agony had drawn them out, only that they were mine, unexpected and unstoppable.
Vincenzo didn’t react.
Just a quiet, measured pause before he set it aside, reached for another handkerchief, and continued with slow, deliberate care.
His hand moved with precision across my face—temples first, then under my eyes, tracing along my jaw.
Each motion was almost clinical, but the gentleness beneath it was impossible to miss.
Careful. Attentive.
Like he was handling something fragile—something that might break if he pressed too hard.
My breathing hitched once.
Then again.
But slowly, under the rhythm of his touch, the sobs began to ease.
Not because the pain was gone—it wasn’t.
But because something in the way he moved quieted it.
Calmed it.
By the time he finished, my face felt clean, the coolness of the cloth lingering against my skin, my breathing uneven but no longer spiraling.
“Lie down on the floor,” he said softly.
A pause.
“On your stomach.”
I hesitated. Just for a second.
Then obeyed.
Slowly lowering myself from the chair to the cold concrete, every movement sending a sharp protest through my ribs.
I bit back a wince, but it still slipped out as a quiet hiss when my weight shifted.
The floor was hard.
But stable.
Vincenzo moved beside me, kneeling with quiet efficiency.
His presence felt different now—less like a threat, more like a controlled force operating within boundaries only he understood.
His fingers reached for the hem of my torn top.
