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He lets out a low chuckle, and when he meets my eyes again, there’s a strange flicker of something behind them—amusement or maybe something darker. “Good heart, huh? And here I thought you didn’t smoke weed.”

“You don’t have to admit it,” I say, meeting his stare. “But if you didn’t have a good heart, they wouldn’t follow you the way they do.”

He shakes his head, his smile fading into something darker. “They’re loyal because they’re paid to be.”

I tilt my head, challenging him. “Money runs out. Real loyalty doesn’t. They stay because they see something in you, something you don’t let yourself see.”

For a moment, he’s silent, his eyes searching mine as though trying to find the catch in my words. “Maybe,” he concedes at last, “but it doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re not as bad as you think you are,” I say, and I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. But it’s true. There’s more to him than the killer everyone thinks he is.

His face softens, just for a heartbeat, and I dare to hope I’ve gotten through to him. But then his mask slides back into place.

“I’m not a good man,” he says, his tone colder now, final. “And you’re a fool if you think otherwise.”

I don’t know why it stings so much, but it does. He’s right, I suppose. He’s not a good man.

We fall into a brief silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. I want to ask him about his past—what really happened that made him the man he is—but I don’t.

Instead, I look at him, really look at him, trying to find some trace of the boy he used to be beneath the hardened exterior.

The Remo Callegari I see now, the one who rules with an iron fist, is the result of too much loss. Too much pain.

“I was just a kid when I lost my family to a deadly fire. And it was all my fault.”

I don’t move, don’t even breathe. I just wait, my eyes locked on him, waiting for him to decide whether or not he’s going to finally show me the parts of himself that he keeps buried beneath that unbreakable shell.

“I set the fire,” he continues in a voice barely above a whisper. His eyes drift to the side like he’s trying to escape the weight of his own confession. “I was just a kid. My family—” He stops, clenches his fists, and for a moment, I think he’s going to leave it at that. But he doesn’t. “I was playing with matches. Don’t even remember why. Maybe I was bored. Or angry. Maybe I just wanted to see if I could control something for once.” His voice cracks slightly, and I’m almost too afraid to look at him. But I can’t tear my eyes away. This is it—the thing he’s been hiding all along.

“I didn’t know the house would burn down. I didn’t know the walls would crumble. I didn’t know it would get out of control. But it did,” he says, his voice growing colder as the memories flood back. “By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. My parents didn’t have a chance. I thought I could fix it, you know? Thought I could stop it before it went too far. But I was just a fucking kid. I didn’t know anything.”

His hands are shaking now, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. I don’t say anything. I just let him talk.

“When the firemen pulled me out of the rubble, I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I didn’t know everything I knew was gone. My parents, my house, my life—all of it turned to ash in a matter of minutes. And I was the one who caused it. I was the one who killed them.”

I want to say something to comfort him, but I don’t know what or how. I’m not sure there’s anything to say that would make this better. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s something that can be fixed.

“But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that I remember it all—the fire, the screams, the way it felt like everything I loved was ripped from me without a single damn thing I could do about it.”

I listen, and even though I can’t imagine what he’s been through, something inside me twists.

“And after that, I was thrown into the system,” he continues, his voice flat. “Foster homes. Jail. No one cared. No one gave a damn about the kid who burned his family alive. I was just another lost cause. I wasn’t worth saving.”

His eyes shift, locking with mine like he’s daring me to judge him. But I don’t. I can’t. Because I understand.

“I tried to forget about it. Tried to bury it, like I buried everything else. But you don’t just forget something like that. It’s there. All the time. No matter how much you drink or fuck up or throw yourself into this world…those ghosts? They’re always watching.”

I don’t know how to respond. I’m not even sure if I should say anything at all. So I just nod. But it’s not pity in my eyes. It’s something else, something darker. Something that says I get it. I know what it’s like to carry that kind of weight. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re suffocating under the pressure of something that never really leaves.

“I thought I could outrun it,” he adds, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Thought I could find control in this world. I joined the Mafia because it was the only way I could gain some control. But I just ended up making it worse. I became the very thing I hated. I became the guy who hurts people, who doesn’t care, who breaks the rules without thinking twice.”

“You’re not that guy anymore,” I say, my voice steady, even though I’m not sure if I believe it. “You’re not just some monster.”

He scoffs. “Aren’t I?”

I shake my head, taking a step closer. “You’re a guy with a past. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed to repeat it forever. You’ve got people who care about you now, Remo. People whodon’t see you as the sum of your mistakes. Hell, I don’t even see you like that.”

“You don’t know me,” he mutters, his eyes flicking away from mine.