"Sophia." I keep my voice as steady as I can, which isn't very. "Look at me. Just look at me."
Her wild eyes find mine. Unfocused. Swimming.
"Breathe." The word feels pathetic. A bandage on a bullet wound. But it's all I have. "Please. Just breathe with me."
"I can't." She shakes her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I can't breathe, Marina. He's gone. He's gone and I can't?—"
She breaks off into sobs again, and I pull her against me and hold on.
Together — Giulia on one side, me on the other, Nico hovering behind us — we half-carry, half-guide Sophia toward the bed. She fights us every step. Her nails scratch my arm. Her elbow catches my ribs and I gasp but don't let go.
We get her onto the mattress. She curls into a fetal position immediately, her arms wrapped tight around her stomach in agesture that looks like she's trying to hold herself together from flying apart.
I climb onto the bed beside her. Pull her against me. Her body shakes so hard the whole mattress trembles beneath us, the headboard tapping softly against the wall with each convulsion.
"I'm here." I whisper the words into her hair, over and over, a rhythm meant to anchor her to something real. "I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm right here."
She clings to me and cries.
Giulia stands by the bed. Her hand rests on Sophia's back, rubbing slow circles, and she murmurs something in Italian that sounds like a prayer. Maybe it is. Maybe prayer is the only thing that makes sense when the world does this to people.
I stare at the ceiling and hold my best friend while her world falls apart.
Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe an hour. Time has stopped meaning anything.
Where is Dante?
The thought surfaces again. Urgent. Desperate.
Is he alive? Is he safe? Is he coming back?
I don't know.
I don't know anything except that my best friend’s husband is dead and I can't fix any of it.
I can't fix a single goddamn thing.
So I hold her. And I wait. And I pray that Dante walks through that door.
Dante
The compound gates open.
I pull the car through. My hands grip the steering wheel. Steady. Controlled.
The scratches on my face sting. Three parallel lines across my left cheek where the glass caught me. They'll bruise by morning.
Good.
I need to look like I was there. Like I tried to save him.
The car stops in front of the main house. I sit for a moment. Breathe.
This is the part that matters. The performance. The grief I need to wear like a second skin.
Twenty years I've done this. Lied. Killed. Pretended.
This is just another job.
