“I want it quiet,” Marco says, too fast.
Sure.
“Sign,” I say.
Marco exhales like he’s been waiting for permission his whole life. He scribbles his name across the pages with an urgency that looks like relief.
A signature is easy. The consequences are not.
He sets the pen down and looks at me like he expects praise. “I’m doing the right thing,” he says.
I hold his gaze. “You’re doingathing,” I correct. “Whether it’s right depends on what you do next.”
His jaw works. He nods once.
We stand to leave. Marco hesitates, then grips my forearm. It’s not a hug. Not affection. A gesture men like us use when we don’t know how to be soft.
“Thanks,” he says roughly. “For not giving up.”
My heart tightens behind my ribs, and I pull free gently. “Don’t make me regret it.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “I won’t.”
We walk out. The hallway feels longer on the way back. Posters watching. Doors clicking. Men moving like shadows.
In the car, Enzo settles into the passenger seat like he’s already won something.
“You think it’s genuine?” I ask.
Enzo’s smile is faint. “I think it’s an opportunity.”
Not an answer. I glance at him. “That wasn’t my question.”
He meets my eyes without flinching. “A child changes a man.”
Sometimes. Sometimes it only gives him a new weapon.
But I don’t say that. Because the truth is, I want to believe it. I want one part of my bloodline not to be poison.
Just one.
