“And Ciro...” I added, narrowing my eyes, “how did you know she was taken by the Spanish?”
Ciro didn’t respond immediately, and that alone made my pulse spike.
Ciro opened his mouth—
Paused.
Then closed it again.
“I just...” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “suspected.”
Renzo let out a quiet, humorless breath from beside me.
“‘Suspected’?” he echoed, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
“You sounded awfully sure for something you call a suspicion.”
The tension tightened instantly.
I shifted my gaze to Renzo.
He stood a step apart from us, posture rigid but controlled.
His face was hard, carved from something deeper than anger—something heavier.
His eyes, shadowed and tired, held a quiet storm I hadn’t seen before.
He hadn’t forgiven me.
For the execution order.
For sending him toward death.
I couldn’t blame him.
“Renzo,” Ciro snapped, stepping forward, “What are you implying? And for the record, the boss wasn’t asking you.”
I raised a hand.
“Enough.”
My voice cut through both of them like a command and a warning.
They both stilled.
I looked between them—two men who had stood beside me for years.
Blood brothers in everything but name.
Men I trusted with my life.
Or thought I did.
“Can I still trust either of you?” I asked quietly.
The question landed like a weight between us.
Ciro reacted first.
