When we finally stepped outside, Aurora was quiet.
Too quiet.
I opened the car door for her, but she paused before getting in, turning to face me with an unreadable expression.
“You killed their parents?” she asked softly. There was no accusation in her voice, just quiet understanding of the weight I carried.
I shook my head. “Angelo did. Before I could stop him. Before I could fix it.”
Aurora looked back at the little blue house, where Leone was still waving from the window. Then she looked at me.
“You’re paying for your brother’s sins,” she whispered.
“I’m doing what’s right,” I said roughly. “There’s a difference.”
She stepped closer, her bandaged hand coming up to rest on my chest. “You remember their names. You make sure they’re taken care of. No one knows. No glory. Just… you.”
Her voice dropped, almost angry. “I hate how attractive that is. I hate how good you look doing it. You’re supposed to be the villain, Santino. You’re supposed to be terrifying.”
I caught her chin, tilting her face up to mine. My thumb brushed her lower lip.
“I am the villain,” I told her, voice low and dark. “But even monsters have debts. And sometimes we pay them with something other than blood. Like cheek pinching.”
Aurora stared at me for a long moment, eyes stormy with emotions I couldn’t fully read. Then she rose on her toes and kissed me, soft, slow, and full of something dangerously close to acceptance.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed.
“You’re still ridiculous for calling the doctor over a paper cut,” she muttered.
I smirked, opening the car door for her. “And you’re still sleeping in my bed tonight.”
Chapter Sixteen: AURORA
Iwanderedintothegymon the top floor with a glass of iced lemonade in my hand and zero patience left.
The sound of fists hitting flesh had been echoing through the house all morning. Grunts. Thuds. The occasional curse. I’d tried reading. I’d tried scrolling on my phone. I’d even tried helping the cook again, but Santino had given me one sharp look and banned me from anything sharper than a spoon.
So here I was. Again.
Matteo was on the mat, breathing hard, blood trickling from a fresh split in his lip. Santino stood over him, shirtless, sweat glistening on his powerful shoulders and back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
He threw another punch, controlled, precise, and brutal, and Matteo barely blocked it in time.
I leaned against the ropes and watched for about five minutes. Five long, sweaty, testosterone-soaked minutes of Santino dominating the ring like a beautiful, violent king.
Eventually, I sighed loud enough for them both to hear. “This is boring.”
Matteo, still on the ground and bleeding, let out a breathless laugh. “Thank you.”
Santino turned his head slowly, dark eyes locking onto me. His chest was rising and falling, muscles flexing with every breath. The look he gave me made my stomach flip.
“Leave,” he ordered.
“Gladly,” I shot back, turning on my heel.
I made it three steps before Marco, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines with his arms crossed, made the fatal mistake of letting out a low, amused chuckle.
I stopped. Santino’s gaze snapped to him.
