"You did good," I tell him. The words surprise him. They surprise me too. "Thank you," I add, because it matters. Because I said I would treat him like a person, not an object.
I step closer. Every instinct screams at me not to touch him, not to cross that final line, but I ignore it. I force my hand to move. I brush a kiss to his forehead. It's brief. Almost ceremonial. His eyes fill.
"Tell me your name," I request softly.
He swallows. "Luis," he whispers. "Luis Herrera."
I commit it to memory.
"I'll tell your mother," I promise. My voice doesn't waver. "I'll tell her that at the very end, you did a good deed."
Something breaks in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or absolution. Or just the knowledge that someone will remember him as more than a mistake. I straighten. I don't look at him again. I turn to Enzo and nod. Just once. No words. He understands.
When I step back, the heat swells behind me. The roar grows louder. I don't watch. I don't need to. The decision has already been made, and that's the part that changes me, not the death, but the authority of choosing it. I walk out of the room with my spine straight, my hands steady, my heart beating slow and hard.
Somewhere inside me, something has gone quiet. And something else—something sharper—has taken its place. I step out into the corridor, and the door closes behind me with a heavy, final sound. The heat fades immediately, replaced by cool concrete and the faint echo of machinery deeper in the building. Only then do I realize my hands are shaking. Not badly. Just enough.
I'm drawing a breath when a weight settles on my shoulder. Enzo's hand. It's not possessive. Not restraining. Just… grounding. I look up at him.
"That," he praises, almost thoughtful, "was quite impressive."
I blink, caught off guard. There's no mockery in his tone. No indulgence. Just acknowledgment. The kind that isn't given lightly, if at all. I get the sense Enzo doesn't hand out compliments like that to anyone. I nod once, accepting it for what it is. Before I can say anything back, the door at the far end opens. My body reacts before my mind does. A cold shudder slides down my spine. Bello Capelli steps inside.
Time does something strange. The hallway feels narrower. The air heavier. I know that face. I've seen it before, years ago, in a different life, when hope still had sharp edges, and I thought words could fix things. Bello's face blurs at the edges, and suddenly I'm not here anymore.
I'm ten years back, standing at iron gates so tall they blot out the sky, fingers wrapped around cold metal that stains my palms with rust. A mansion rises beyond them, too big, too grand, all stone and shadow and secrets. This is where Massimo lives. The place I was never meant to see. My chest aches with every breath. I've already swallowed my pride to come here. I've argued with myself all the way up the drive.Turn around, Jenna. Go home. He made his choice. But I don't leave. I can't. I just need to know why.
Security tries to send me away. I don't go. I wait. I stand there in the sun, heart pounding, palms sweating, dignity fraying, thread by thread. Eventually, someone gets tired of me. They call him.
Bello introduces himself. He comes out like the gate itself has learned how to walk, solid, immovable, eyes flat with disinterest. He looks at me like I'm a problem already solved.
"What do you want?" he asks.
My voice shakes, but I stay upright. "I want to speak to Massimo."
He studies my face, something clicking into place. "You're Jenna."
It isn't a question. Hope flares so fast it almost knocks me over. He knows who I am. That has to mean something. Right? My heart lurches painfully against my ribs.
"Yes," I nearly yell. "Please. I just want to talk to him. I just want to understand."
Bello shakes his head. Once. Decisive. Final. "He doesn't want to see you." His voice is firm and cold. "Go home."
The words land like a slap. My throat tightens. I taste blood where I've bitten the inside of my cheek. "Did you ask him?" I whisper. "Did you tell him I was here?"
His eyes harden. "You're not welcome."
Something in me fractures then, but not all the way. I straighten. Wipe my face with the back of my hand. Force my shoulders back even as my chest caves in.
"Tell him," my voice shakes, and I take a deep breath, "that I came. Tell him I waited. Tell him?—"
"Never come back," Bello cuts in, stepping closer, crowding me back toward the gate. "This is over. Whatever you thought it was—forget it."
The gates loom behind me, unforgiving. I don't cry. Not there. I won't give him that. I nod once. Then I turn away on legs that feel borrowed, on a heart that feels like it's been torn loose and left bleeding in the gravel. But even now—even at my lowest—I don't beg. I leave with my spine intact.
The memory snaps closed. The hallway rushes in around me. The present reasserts itself. Enzo's hand is still on my shoulder. Bello is still standing just inside the door. His eyes land on me, and he freezes in pure, naked shock. Like he's just seen a ghost that he buried himself.
I meet Bello's eyes—really meet them—and whatever he sees there makes him swallow hard, and all the color drains from his face.
