Rafael sees a husband who should destroy evidence of his sins. I see an intelligence officer who knows better than to gut an active operation because his conscience stings.
"I will."
The words come out smooth, certain, the tone of a man who has already weighed the options and made his call. Rafael nods and turns for the door.
I've never lied to Rafael. Not in seven years of brotherhood. The lie tastes like rust on my tongue, and I tell myself it'll be the last one.
I don't feel a shred of doubt.
That should concern me more than it does.
The brothers move toward the door, their assignments clear, their focus already shifting to the war ahead. But Rafael pauses at the threshold.
"Wait. The wishes still need reviewing before we scatter. Damaris dropped them off earlier."
He's right. Even in the middle of planning a war, the work of the Syndicate continues. People still need help. Wishes still need granting.
Rafael settles back into his chair. The others return to their seats with varying degrees of reluctance. I reach for the stack of red envelopes on the corner of my desk, the paper smooth and cool beneath my fingertips.
The first few wishes are routine. Money troubles from a single mother drowning in medical debt. A sick grandmother whose family begs for experimental treatment. A woman seeking protection from an abusive ex, her handwriting shaky with fear. We sort through them with practiced efficiency, assigning each to the brother best suited to grant it. Kon takes the protection case. Rafael claims the medical debt. Massimo volunteers for the grandmother, his voice gruff with emotion he tries to hide.
Then my fingers touch an envelope that makes my blood freeze in my veins.
The handwriting on the front is familiar.
Please help.
I know these elegant loops and careful curves. I've studied them on documents prepared for me all week, in the grocery lists left on the kitchen counter, and in the notes scribbled in the margins of books.
I turn it over.
There, on the back, is the wisher’s name, a single word that stops my heart mid-beat.
Ilona.
"Luca?" Rafael's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "You look like you've seen a corpse walk through that door."
I look up but don't answer. My hands shake as I tear open the envelope, the paper ripping too loudly in the sudden silence. The note inside is cream-colored, her writing neat and precise, the words few but devastating.
"I wish someone would make my mistake disappear." - Ilona
The world tilts beneath me.
"Brother." Kon's voice reaches me through the fog, distant and distorted like sound traveling through deep water. A hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and grounding, the weight of it anchoring me to the present moment. "Breathe. Whatever that paper says, you need to breathe first."
Air scrapes into my lungs like shards of glass. Out. In again. The paper trembles in my grip, her words burning into my retinas, searing themselves into my memory where they'll live forever like a brand.
Make my mistake disappear.
"Everyone out." The command tears from somewhere outside my body, rough and barely recognizable as my own voice. My throat feels raw, stripped, like I've been screaming for hours.
Drake rises slowly, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern to the careful blankness of a man who recognizes when not to push. "Luca, if something's wrong?—"
"Out. Please. I need a minute." I don't look at any of them. Whatever is on my face right now isn't something I want five men reading. "Now."
Their footsteps fade across the carpet, the door clicking shut behind each one as they leave. I can sense Kon lingering at the threshold. I look at him to find concern carved into his stoic features, his dark eyes searching my face for answers I refuse to give. One nod and then he steps out. I know he’s telling me to right my wrongs, but it’s not that easy.
That leaves Rafael.
