Sharp. Immediate. Not shouted. Somehow worse. My stomach twisted. "I wasn't…"
"Don't."
His voice sliced through mine. Silence crashed into the room. The flowers. The cake. The photographs. The whiskey. Everything made sense. Every year. Every birthday. Every memory. Every ritual. Preserved. Protected. Untouched.
Like Santino believed one wrong movement would erase him completely.
My chest hurt. "Santino…"
"Leave."
I stared at him. Because beneath the anger wasn't rage. It was panic. Raw panic. Like the idea of somebody touching Angelo's things genuinely terrified him. Like memories were all he had left. And somebody had gotten too close.
His breathing sounded uneven now. His eyes never left the frame. Never left the place where my fingers had almost touched it. A shrine. Not a bedroom. A shrine built by a grieving man who had spent four years trying to stop time.
"You celebrate your birthday?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. His entire body went still. A mistake. A huge mistake. For several seconds, he didn't answer.
"Every year." The words sounded dragged out of him.
Painful. Unwanted. I looked around the room again. The photographs. The cake. The flowers. The whiskey. The preserved life. And I understood something that terrified me.
Santino Moretti wasn't obsessed with possessions. He was obsessed with remembering. Because if he stopped remembering Angelo... Then Angelo would truly be gone. And Santino wasn't strong enough to survive that. Neither was I. Because for the first time since meeting him, I wasn't looking at the Devil.
I was looking at a man still bleeding from a wound that happened four years ago.
I should have left. Any normal person would have. Santino had told me to leave. Twice.
The room still felt heavy behind me as I stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut carefully.
My chest hurt. Which was ridiculous. I barely knew him. I barely knew Angelo. I barely knew anything. And yet... I couldn't stop thinking about the look on Santino's face.
Not anger. Not really. Fear. Raw, desperate fear. Like grief had become something living inside him. Something that lashed out whenever anybody got too close. The mansion seemed quieterthan before. The hallway stretched endlessly ahead of me. Dark. Empty.
I started walking. Halfway down the hall, I stopped. Frowned. Turned around. The door remained closed. I stared at it for several seconds. Then looked down the hallway again. Then back at the door.
"Oh my God," I muttered.
Curiosity was genuinely going to get me murdered one day.
I went back. Not inside. Just enough to crack the door open. Just enough to look. The room remained untouched. Still. Silent. Frozen. And then I noticed something I hadn't before. Something about the small chocolate cake beside the flowers. One candle. One slice missing.
My stomach twisted. Not eaten. Just cut.
The piece still sat on a plate. Untouched. Waiting. Like somebody was expected to come back for it. My throat tightened.Jesus.
Hourslater,IfoundMarco in the kitchen. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The kitchen lights were dim. Only a few lamps glowed beneath the cabinets. Marco sat alone at the island.
A bottle of whiskey beside him. A glass in his hand.
He looked up when I entered. Immediately suspicious. I was beginning to realize everybody around Santino was suspicious by default. "You're awake."
"I have questions."
His expression became exhausted. "Of course you do."
I slid onto a stool. Crossed my arms. Looked at him. Marco looked back. Neither of us spoke. Finally he sighed. "Ask.”
I hesitated. "Why is he away today? Why does he keep his room that way?"
