“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The words feel ridiculous in this room. Sorry doesn’t bring Enzo back. Sorry doesn’t erase betrayal. Sorry doesn’t wash the blood off the floor.
But I don’t know what else to say when I’m standing next to a man who just killed his oldest friend and looks like he’s swallowing the pain whole.
Turo exhales. “He tried to take Nico from me before I even knew I had him.”
My chest aches. “I know,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “I don’t regret it.”
I don’t flinch from those words. Because I believe him. Because regret would be indulgence here. Regret would mean Enzo still mattered more than Nico.
And that isn’t allowed.
“But I’ll carry it,” Turo finishes.
The words land heavy. Not bravado. Not threat. A fact. A life sentence he has accepted without complaint.
“I know that, too,” I say.
He turns his head slightly, just enough that his gaze finds mine. For a heartbeat, I see the man from the plane. The one who talked me through the turbulence. The one who asked permission. The one who let me leave because he was terrified of becoming his father.
And now I see the don. The monster. The protector.
All of him. All at once.
I squeeze his hand. Not to comfort him. To anchor him. Because I’m realizing something with brutal clarity: Loving a man like Turo doesn’t mean being kept safe in a tower while he bleeds outside the door.
It means witnessing the cost.
It means holding his hand while he does what he must.
It means letting the weight exist between you without pretending it doesn’t stain.
