Before everything broke.
“You were,” I said.
The words came out low. “You still are.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
She held my gaze for a long moment, searching—maybe for doubt, maybe for weakness.
She found neither.
Slowly, deliberately, she nodded.
I straightened, the weight of the moment settling fully into place as I turned toward Ottavio Orsini—still kneeling in the dirt.
The wind returned, colder now.
Ottavio had gone completely still.
As if he could feel it.
The shift.
The end.
I stepped closer, my shoes crunching softly against gravel and frost.
Each step measured.
His breathing picked up again, fast and uneven behind the tape. His shoulders tensed, muscles straining against the restraints as he tried—one last time—to break free.
To speak.
To beg.
I stopped in front of him.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Father.
Son.
The distance between us felt infinite.
I tilted my head slightly, studying him the way I might study a stranger.
Because that’s what he was.
A stranger who had lived too long.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” I said quietly.
My voice carried easily in the open air, calm and devoid of emotion in a way that made it far more dangerous than shouting ever could.
His eyes widened as recognition flickered across his face, followed by something deeper—memory.
Good.
