“I won’t,” I correct, still calm.
The difference matters. Marco’s breath turns ragged. His finger tightens again.
Lucia’s voice comes out broken but steady. “Marco… please.”
Marco snaps his head toward her. “Shut up.”
The gun shifts with his movement. Nico squeaks. My body tightens, ready to launch, ready to tear my own son apart with my hands if that’s what it takes to save Nico.
I don’t move. Because movement will get my child killed.
Marco is spiraling. His anger is rising like a fever. I need to redirect. I need to give him something that releases pressure without giving him power.
“Marco,” I say softly, “you don’t want to do this.”
His laugh is sharp. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I do,” I say, and I put the truth in it this time, careful. “You want to matter.”
His eyes flash. His mouth opens, words jammed behind fury.
I continue, voice steady. “You want to be seen. You want to stop feeling like everyone moved on without you.”
Marco’s breathing stutters. For a heartbeat, his expression wavers again. Hurt cutting through rage.
It’s enough. Enough to make him hesitate. Enough to make his grip shift.
Enough to give me a window.
My gaze flicks, only for a fraction, to the space behind him. To the guard positioned at the perfect angle, hidden by theservice vehicle’s bulk. I don’t move my head. I don’t change my posture. But I lift my left hand slightly. Two fingers.
A signal so small, no one notices unless they’ve been trained to read my body like a language. The guard behind Marco adjusts. I feel the air tighten.
Marco’s eyes narrow. “What did you?—?”
I keep talking, voice smooth, keeping his attention on me. “Marco,” I say, stepping half a pace closer, “this was never about Nico.”
Marco’s face twists. “It’s about you taking everything!”
Wrong angle. Wrong phrasing. I see it the second the words land. Marco’s pupils blow wider. His rage spikes. His hand jerks. His finger tightens on the trigger.
Time slows. I see Nico’s tears suspended on his lashes. I see Lucia’s lips part like she’s about to scream. I see Marco’s hand shaking. I see the guard behind him, preparing to move.
Everything happens in seconds. It feels like hours. And the only thought in my head, sharp enough to cut through everything else, is brutal and singular:
Not my son.
