He lay on his side of the bed, still.
Regal.
Breathing slow and even.
But never asleep.
Never when I entered.
I crossed the carpet, each step careful.
I slipped under the duvet, pulling it up to my chest, closing my eyes.
The ritual I had followed for the past eight nights—same time, same space, same unspoken rules—felt heavier tonight.
Minutes stretched.
My pulse refused to settle, my mind refused to quiet.
It circled back to Renzo—seven days in a dark cell.
Yesterday the punishment had ended, but nothing came of it.
No appearance. No update.
Just silence.
Not empty silence. A silence that felt final, like something had been erased.
My fingers tightened against the fabric.
I turned onto my side, the sheets whispering against my skin.
“Vincenzo.”
No response. Not surprising.
“Vincenzo,” I said again, firmer this time. “I deserve to know where Renzo is.”
Still nothing.
The silence pressed down on me, heavier than any answer could have been, coiling around my chest and refusing to let go.
“Please,” I whispered, thinner than intended, strained. “I just need to know he’s alive.”
My throat tightened.
“I caused this,” I admitted.
“I pressured him... pushed him to take me to that meeting.” My fingers clenched the sheets, knuckles white. “If something happened to him... because of me—”
The words stopped as he moved.
His eyes opened—slow, completely awake.
He rose in one smooth motion from the bed.
Bare chest.
