I sip the cold coffee Ignazio brought. It tastes bitter now. I toss it in the sink.
I run through the fight again in my mind, and what sticks isn’t the adrenaline. It’s the way I didn’t hesitate.
I moved. Hit. Fought.
Dario would’ve acted without asking. No warnings. Just motion and result.
Ignazio stalled.
I remember what Dario said when I told him I’d go to the police.
And if the cop across the desk is already on Caldera’s payroll?
I didn’t want to believe it.
Part of me still hoped he’d lie better. That I could believe him.
I used to think the badge meant something.
Now I think it just hides the knife.
Chapter 8 – Dario
The basement never sleeps, even when no one’s in it.
It holds too much history. Ghosts sit in the corners, pretending they’re furniture. The whiskey bottles lining the shelf aren’t decorative—they’ve all been drained by someone who came down here thinking they’d drink away a mistake and leave cleaner than they arrived.
Didn’t work for them.
It never works.
I sit on the edge of the worn couch, elbows on my knees, and listen to the jazz bleeding through the floorboards. Just brass now, soft and loose. Maybe Riley’s still up there cleaning glasses, pretending not to hear.
Across from me, Viviana stands near the shelf, not touching anything.
She hasn’t sat down yet.
The lamplight touches the side of her face, the faint curve of her neck. She looks like she’s trying to hold a shape she’s not sure belongs to her anymore.
She doesn’t look afraid.
She looks… ready.
“I’m not drinking,” she says.
I nod. “Didn’t figure you would.”
“Then why bring me here?”
“You asked questions. I’m answering.”
She glances at the record player, where the next track hasn’t clicked on yet. The silence—no, the stillness—settles between us.
“Why me?” she asks. “You could’ve walked away.”
I lean back.
“That night at the dock,” she says. “You didn’t even know my name. And you still stepped in. Again. And again. Even when I told you not to. So what the hell do you want from me?”