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Rocco steps forward, voice steady. “He’s in the safe house, bound against the far wall. Bruised, but alive.”

I step forward until I’m inches from him. “And?”

He meets my gaze. His face is drawn, with dark circles under his eyes, jaw clenched. “He’s bruised. Broken ribs, shallow breathing. He’ll survive.”

I taste bile. Broken ribs. He’s alive. For now.

I snatch the ledger from the cot and hold it at arm’s length, shaking. “He wrote my death,” I rasp. “He framed me. He got me declared dead.”

Rocco’s shoulders sag. He moves closer, but I back away—anger and pain pooling behind my ribs. My thumb brushes the entry: “Falcone, Chiara—confirmed alive.” Every word spells out his treachery.

“I trusted him,” I whisper. “He was the only father I had. He taught me how to grease engines, how to keep my gaze steady when danger came. He gave me a name.”

My voice fails. I close my eyes and breathe. A storm rages in my chest. I want blood. I want vengeance.

“Chiara—” Rocco begins, his voice low.

I cut him off. I raise the wrench until it hovers in line with his temple. “Tell me where he is,” I demand. “So I can kill him.”

Rocco’s eyes flick to the heavy wrench in my hand. A flash of pain crosses his face—compassion, regret. He reaches out but doesn’t touch. “He’s not worth it,” he says quietly.

I laugh, low and rough, the sound more broken than I feel. “He sold me to them. He said I was a product. I was a girl he took into his home. He declared me dead so they could take me in my place.”

Rage surges. I step closer, wrench shaking. “I should kill him.”

Rocco inhales, then speaks with careful calm. “You can,” he says, voice heavy. “You could crush him right now and end it.”

My grip on the wrench tightens until my knuckles whiten. My vision tunnels. Every lie, every stolen moment of peace, erupts inside me.

He doesn’t flinch. His eyes are steady, unwavering. “But you won’t,” he says. “Because you’re better than that.”

I blink. I stare at him—this man who stands between me and the only real justice I can imagine. “Better?” My voice trembles. “How can I be better?”

Rocco exhales, dropping his gaze to my shaking hands. Then he lifts his head, meets my eyes. “Because killing him won’t fix you. It won’t bring back the life he tried to steal from you. It won’t undo the damage. It’ll just make him one more body on the ground—and you’ll carry the weight of that, too.”

I taste blood in my mouth—my own, I realize. My heart pounds. The wrench drops from my fingers and clatters against the concrete. I stare down at it as though seeing it for the first time.

Silence settles between us, heavy and charged. My chest heaves. I want to turn around and find Sal’s battered face, to spit in his broken mouth, but I know I can’t. Rocco’s right: killing him satisfies only the moment. But then what? I’d be no better than the men who made me prey.

Rocco steps forward, closing that sliver of space between us. He puts a hand on my shoulder—gentle, deliberate. It’s the first touch since I’d arrived here in this room, and it grounded me. I feel the tremor in his hand, too. He’s strained.

“Let it go for now,” he whispers. “Give yourself time to breathe. To heal. We need your mind sharp. We need you whole.”

I look at him, resistance flickering in my chest. My instincts scream to kill. But as I meet his steady gaze, I feel my knees soften. I think of Sal’s broken body left on the dock. He’sbegotten a war thicker than water in my veins, but right now, I feel the slip of exhaustion, sorrow, and every lie he told.

“I trusted him,” I repeat, voice taut. “He was everything to me.”

Rocco’s hand tightens on my shoulder, and he slides it up to cradle my jaw. His thumb brushes the side of my face—blood-dry and trembling. “I know,” he says. “I know how much it hurts.”

My vision blurs. I swallow, taste salt. “He thought I’d never come back.”

A tremor passes through me: grief, fury, and something deeper, like betrayal, carving a new shape inside. Rocco’s thumb wipes a drop of blood from my cheek. “But you did,” he says. “And now you’re here. Alive. You survived.”

I close my eyes. I shake against his hand. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

“You’re stronger,” he says. “Because you survived.”

I open my eyes and stare at the ledger in my hands. The pages feel thick—every name a thread in a web of violence. Sal’s handwriting rings across each line. I trace the entry: Falcone, Chiara—confirmed alive. My thumb presses into the paper. I close the binder.