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I thought of all the names on the recording. All the people who would die because Vittorio had given them up. All the girls who might live because he had. That was how damnation justified itself at first. With arithmetic.

One dead man. Several saved lives.

One sin. A greater good.

One soul dirtied so others might remain clean.

It sounded noble if you asked me.

I gripped the edge of the sink and lowered my head. No guilt came. Only that faint, dreadful quiet. That peace.

I turned off the tap. Water dripped from my fingers into the basin, each drop loud in the little room.

In the silence, I understood something I had not been brave enough to name before that night. I had learned that a man could do monstrous things and still sleep, provided he convinced himself the monster had chosen the correct victim.

I dried my hands slowly. Then I looked into the mirror again and saw, not blood, but possibility. A man could become good at many things if he practised long enough.

Mercy.

Prayer.

Obedience.

Violence.

And I, DeMarco Cavalho, the quiet son no one had feared at first, was becoming very good at damnation.

15

ADRIANA

Seeing photographs of Zeno’s wife was one thing. Seeing Ayla in person was like staring into the sun and trusting it not to blind you.

Ayla Ventresca arrived just before dinner with the air of a woman who owned a room without even trying.

She came through the hall at a brisk pace, shrugging out of her coat as she moved, her dark hair loose around her face and her boots clicking against the stone floor.

Zeno had been speaking to Demitri near the window.

He stopped mid-sentence. His whole attention shifted. The room changed with it.

Ayla looked tired. There was steel in the way she carried herself, but it sat beneath a layer of worry she didn’t hide well. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and there was a faint crease between her brows.

Zeno crossed the room without rushing. There was purpose in every step, a quiet possession that made heat creep into my face before he even reached her.

“Ayla,” he breathed.

She lifted her eyes to his. “I’m late.”

“You’re home.”

It was only two words. But the way he said them made the room feel suddenly too intimate.

He took the coat from her hand and passed it to a waiting Stella without looking away from her. Then his arm went around her waist, protective and familiar, drawing her close enough that the side of her body fit perfectly against his.

Something softened in him. The hard lines of his face eased. His thumb moved once against her waist. His gaze searched hers with care. As if he were reading her problems. As if the world had no right to touch her while he was in the room.

Ayla’s expression changed too.