Page 91

And I realize the most painful truth of all.
I would still choose her. Even now. Even like this.
The sadness becomes a living thing, consuming everything. Replacing blood. Replacing hope.
How could I have been so wrong about her?
How could love have been such a perfect weapon?
Before I can stop it, the warehouse fades. The Fiori brothers' voices become distant. Pain recedes.
I’m back in time, to thirteen summers ago in the Venere compound's garden, all manicured hedges, and stolen sunlight. I'm standing near the oak tree, trying to look bored, trying to seem older than my thirteen years. The adults are talking business inside. The kids are supposed to stay outside.
But I’m practicing knife throws behind the guest house, something my older brothers taught me to do when no adults were watching. Each throw is precise. This is not a game, it’s training.
My father would be furious if he knew. "A Rega heir doesn't play with knives like some street thug," he'd say. But Darren and Antonio showed me, and I'm determined to be better than anyone expects.
The last knife spins through the air, embedding perfectly into the wooden target. Twelve throws. Twelve bullseyes.
A slow clap breaks my concentration.
I spin, another knife already half-drawn from my belt. It’s a reflexive movement that would make my brothers proud.
That's when I see her.
Ava D'Amato. Nine years old. Wild hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, grass stains on her white dress, a book clutched so tightly to her chest it might as well be armor.
She doesn't walk. She moves like something untamed. Like wind given human form.
Our eyes meet.
And something inside me, something I'm too young to understand, shifts. Locks. Becomes irrevocably changed.
She doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just looks at me with eyes that are already too old for her age. Dark. Knowing. Like she can see every thought before it forms.
"You're staring," she says. Not a question. A statement.
I should look away. Should pretend I wasn't watching. But I can't.
"So are you," I respond.
A hint of a smile. Gone so fast I might have imagined it.
"Impressive," she says, not intimidated by the knife still half-drawn in my hand. "Most kids would have dropped the blade when they were surprised."
I should lower the knife. Should act my age. Instead, I'm fascinated.
"You're not most kids," I respond.
Her laugh is sharp. Unexpected. "Neither are you, Stefano Rega."
How does she know my name? How does she stand there so fearlessly while I'm holding a weapon?
She takes a step closer. I should move back. Should seem cautious. Instead, I'm rooted in place, studying her like she's some rare, dangerous creature.
"Want to see something?" she asks, pulling a small, ornate knife from behind her back. The handle looks old. Expensive. Definitely not a child's toy.
Before I can respond, she flips it, once, twice, with a precision that would make my brothers jealous.