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"Hey, kiddo," Constantino murmurs, voice ragged with emotion. "You're not alone in this, okay? I'm here... I'll be here."
Evan sniffles, his small frame shuddering with each sob suppressed, each tear fought back. He seems so tiny, so lost in the embrace of the man I thought incapable of tenderness. Yet here he is, holding the boy as if he could absorb the pain, shield him from the harshness of a world that had already taken so much.
"Are you... sad too?" Evan's voice is tentative, questioning the authenticity of the emotions displayed before him.
"More than you know, little man," Constantino replies, his leather wristband sliding as he wipes away a stray tear from the boy's cheek—his medical alert tattoo peeking out, all his vulnerabilities laid bare.
My heart clenches, my thoughts a tumultuous sea as I watch them. This is not the Constantino I know—the one who thrives on control and evokes fear. This is someone else, someone capable of regret, of compassion. He's not just acknowledging his mistakes; he's claiming them, taking on a burden I never imagined he would shoulder.
"Will things... will things be okay?" Evan asks, voice barely above a whisper, seeking reassurance in a world suddenly too vast and uncertain.
"Things will be different," Constantino says, and his gaze flickers to mine for a fleeting moment, "but we'll make them okay. Together."
They sit there, two souls bound by loss, and I can't help but feel like an intruder on this private moment of shared sorrow. But as they sob together, something within me shifts—this brutal, beautiful vulnerability strips away the layers I've built around my own heart, leaving me raw, exposed. I didn't realize how much I craved to see this side of Constantino, how desperately I needed to believe that beneath the monster lay a man.
And as I watch Evan's eyes flutter shut, the steady rise and fall of his chest harmonizing with Constantino's own breaths, I'm caught adrift in the enormity of the change unfolding before me. I, Evelyn Moretti, the woman who prides herself on her intellect, who hides behind walls of sarcasm and pretension, is seeing the truth—that maybe people are more than the sum of their sins.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I slide the door closed, the muted click a lullaby for the little boy now wrapped in the tendrils of sleep. His breaths, soft and even, are the only things that seem right in this world. I can't blame him for escaping into dreams; the horrors he's witnessed would make the bravest soul crave oblivion. The wetness on his cheeks glistens like a betrayal under the hallway light, and I swipe at my own eyes, willing away the evidence of shared pain before Evelyn sees.
But she does see—hell, she always sees right through me. No sooner have I turned around than she’s there, her arms wrapping around me in an embrace that feels like it could stitch together all the fractured parts of me.
"God, you're doing so well," her voice is a whisper, but it echoes in the cavernous space of my chest. "You’re going to be what he needs... what he deserves."
Her pride should be comforting, but it stings—a reminder of how unfamiliar such warmth is to my battle-scarred heart. I'mnot built for this—the softness, the proximity. With a jolt, I break free, though every fiber in me screams to cling to her, to drown in the solace she offers.
"Let me help you back to your room," Evelyn insists, her hand slipping beneath my arm, lending strength I hadn’t realized I'd been sapping from her presence alone.
"Rest," she murmurs as she guides me, each step a laborious effort. "You need it."
"Rest?" I practically snort as we reach my room, the word tasting bitter. "After everything, you think I can just shut my eyes and pretend we're not sitting ducks?"
She doesn’t answer, just helps me sit on the edge of my bed, her fingers lingering on mine—a touch electric enough to jolt a dead man’s heart.
"Safe," I mutter, scanning the opulent shadows of the mansion, "is a fairy tale for fools and children."
Evelyn pulls her lip between her teeth, worrying it like a puzzle she can't solve. "Would they come here? To the mansion?" Her voice is low, threaded with the fear we both feel but refuse to acknowledge.
"Probably not," I say, the taste of false assurance bitter on my tongue. "There's supposed to be an unspoken rule—no one invades home territory. It's sacred ground, even for monsters like us. But, I wouldn't put it past a man like Declan, considering he just opened fire in a hospital."
I push off the bed and pace, energy too restless to be contained. My secret safe haven comes to mind—a nondescript apartment north of the city. "I've got a place. No ties, no trails. That's our best shot."
"Then that's where we'll go, after Evan wakes up." She pauses, watching me with those clear blue eyes that see too much. "For now, he needs rest. We both do."
"Rest," I scoff inwardly, because sleep has been a stranger for too long. But I nod, conceding to her logic, if only to quell the tremor of worry in her gaze.
"Constantino, what's your plan for the Irish?" Evelyn's question pins me to the spot, and I struggle with the admission.
"Truth is..." A snarl twists my lips, and I force it down. "I'm not sure. It's all different now. Unpredictable."
"Explain."
"Declan," I start, and the name is like a bullet in the chamber, ready to fire. "Declan O'Leary—it used to be he was second in command. Now, he's forced his way to the top. And he doesn't play by the rules—not like the others did."
"Unpredictable," she repeats, a word turned into a weapon in her mouth. "That makes him dangerous."
"Deadly," I correct her, and the air between us charges with a current, the kind that precedes storms and wars alike.
