Chapter 12 #2
Because the evidence clutched against my chest isn’t just the truth.It’s a weapon.
A weapon that could destroy the man who killed for me.
The Crack in Her Revenge
I slide down the cold stone wall until my spine hits the floor, legs folding beneath me like they’ve finally stopped pretending I’m made of steel. The recorder sits on the metal table in front of me, its pause button glowing faintly—waiting, accusing, daring me to press it again.
I can’t.
The sounds replay anyway, looping behind my eyes:
My father’s breath catching.Giovanni’s calm, surgical cruelty.That final choke—wet, rattling—cut straight through me.
I press the heel of my hand hard against my mouth to stop the sob clawing up my throat, but instead of Giovanni’s voice echoing through my skull…
…I hear Santino’s.
“You are safe with me.”
The words land wrong now—too heavy, too warm, too close. They wrap around places I swore were dead, settle low in my chest like something I shouldn’t want, something I don’t have the strength to refuse.
Safe with him.Safe with Giovanni’s son.Safe with the heir of the man who murdered my father.
My pulse jumps painfully, a frantic stutter I can’t slow. Dust drifts from the ceiling like falling ash as I stare upward, trying to breathe past the tightening in my ribs.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t think about him. I shouldn’t feel anything except the cold burn of vengeance.
But I do.
When I remember Santino standing over me in the tunnels—blood splattered across his collar, chest heaving after killing a man who dared touch me—
When I remember the way his rough fingers brushed my cheek like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch softness—
When I remember the way he whispered my name like a sin he wanted to confess and commit in the same breath—
Warmth slips through me again, wrecking me from the inside out.
I swipe my sleeve across my eyes, furious at the heat gathering there.
He’s the enemy.He’s a weapon I used.A door I pushed open.A Rivas.
And yet… my body remembers him. The way I leaned into him without thinking. The way my breath caught when he looked at me like I wasn’t a lie. The way his presence wrapped around me felt like protection instead of danger.
No.
No. No. No.
I shake my head hard, as if I can fling the feeling out of my skull. This isn’t real. It’s fallout. Trauma. Weakness.
But the truth—my truth, the one I’ve avoided longer than Giovanni’s—sticks in my throat like broken glass.
I didn’t come here just for revenge.I came here to end a legacy.And now I’m falling for its last loyal son.
A bitter laugh escapes me, small and cracked. I let my head fall back against the wall and stare at the recorder.
The evidence sits in my lap.My father’s innocence.Giovanni’s guilt.The weapon that could destroy the Rivas empire.
This should feel like a victory.
It feels like a blade turning inward.
Because Santino is tangled in this web — not by choice,not by loyalty,but by blood.Blood he never asked for.Blood he’s drowning in.Blood he spilled tonight for me without hesitation.
My fingers curl into fists, nails sharp against my palms.
If I use this tape — If I expose the truth — If I drag his family name through the fire—
…I destroy him too.
The revenge I’ve carried like armor sits in my lap.So why does it feel like plunging a knife into myself?
A tremor cuts through me — not fear,not grief,something darker.Something like choosing between the ghost of the man who raised me and the man who looked at me like he’d burn down heaven and hell just to keep me breathing.
I close my eyes.
Just for a moment.
A crack tears through my resolve, sharp as a fault line.
I’m not ready to decide.Not yet.
But the decision is coming.
And whichever way I choose…
someone I care about is going to bleed.
She Chooses the Evidence… for Now
My legs feel like water when I push myself upright, palms braced against the cold stone wall for balance. For a moment, the room tilts—the blood smear on the floor, the table, the safe—blurring into a dizzy smear of grief and fury.
I blink hard until the world steadies.
I don’t get to fall apart.Not yet.Not until the man who murdered my father is in the ground—or burning in whatever hell waits for men like Giovanni Rivas.
I draw a shaky breath and force the words through my teeth:
“Revenge first. Heart later. If ever.”
The chamber swallows my voice whole, echoing it back like a decree carved into stone.
I move to the safe again, hands faster now, surer. There's no time—no room—to be delicate. No space to think about the blood that stains these papers or the lives Giovanni destroyed to keep them buried.
I take everything.
The cassette tape — CONFESSION — P.M.The memory drive.The faded receipts.The transfer sheets.Every damning scrap of Giovanni’s guilt.
They disappear into the hidden lining of my coat, rustling like a heartbeat against my ribs.
This is it.
Years of chasing ghosts.Years of nightmares.Years of whispering my father's name into the dark, begging for truth.
Now, the truth is in my pocket.
My father’s innocence.My family’s redemption.My dagger aimed at the Rivas empire.
I should feel powerful.Triumphant.Vindicated.
Instead, nausea curls up my throat.
When I imagine pressing this evidence to the throat of the Rivas name…I don’t see Giovanni.I see Santino.
His jaw clenched.His eyes are storm-dark.His hands stained with blood he spilled for me.His voice breaking when he whispered my name, like it tasted like faith and sin at once.
A hot ache stabs through my chest.
No.Not now.My heart has no place in this.It never did.
I turn toward the chamber door.
And freeze.
The lantern flickers—once, then again—its flame bending as if disturbed by movement.
A shadow slides across the narrow gap beneath the door.Long.Deliberate.Human.
Someone is standing exactly where I would have stepped out.
A cold slice of fear cuts down my spine.
Someone followed me.Someone knows I’m here.Someone is waiting.
I take one instinctive step back, my heel scraping stone. My hand flies to the knife at my thigh, grip tightening until the leather digs into my skin.
The shadow shifts again.
Heavier this time.
Boots reposition.A breath—low, controlled—leaks through the crack beneath the door.
Not Santino.Not Dante.Not any Rivas I’ve met.
A stranger.Down here.With me.
My pulse spikes, a brutal, stuttering hammer in my ribs.
I move forward—silent, measured—knife lifted, blade catching the lantern glow.
Another breath.Slow.Patient.
Like the person on the other side already knows what I found.Already knows what I carry beneath my coat.Already knows I shouldn’t leave this room with it.
My throat dries.My skin prickles.
“Come on,” I whisper, barely audible. “Show yourself.”
But the shadow doesn’t move.
It listens.
Waiting.
One more step.One more inch.
I brace my weight—
—and move toward the dark.
The Door Slams Shut
I’m one step from the threshold when the world detonates around me.
The vault door slams shut with a violent metallic crash that hits like a gunshot, rattling my bones. The sound ricochets through the chamber—loud, brutal, final. My lantern jerks in my hand, its flame flaring high before shrinking to a trembling sputter.
For a beat, I just stare at the thick metal door, my mind lagging the terror screaming through my blood.
Then I hear them.
The locks.
One.Two.Three.Four.Five.Six.
Heavy internal bolts grind into place, each one shrieking through the stone like something massive is sealing its jaws around me. The sound reverberates up my spine.
Someone locked me in.
From the outside.
The realization punches the air from my lungs.
“No,” I whisper. “No—no, no—”
Dust shakes loose from the ceiling as the lantern flickers again, casting the room in jagged shadows. My heartbeat pounds so violently I feel it in my jaw.
I lunge at the door, slam my palm against the metal. A shock shoots up my arm.
“Hey!” My voice cracks. “Open the fucking door!”
The metal is ice-cold, unforgiving beneath my hand. I shove my shoulder into it, muscles straining, sweat cold on my back.
The door doesn’t budge.
Panic surges, hot and sharp. I drop the lantern to the floor—its base clanging—the flame whipping wildly. I pound both fists against the steel.
“Who’s there?” I shout, breath ripping out of me. “Open it!”
The cry echoes back at me in distorted fragments. Open it. Open—
Silence swallows everything.
Then — Footsteps.
Slow.Measured.Not fleeing.Leaving.
My entire body goes rigid. I press my ear to the door, breath held tight.
“Hey!” I scream, voice shredding. “Look at me when you trap me! Open the fucking door!”
The footsteps stop.
For one suspended heartbeat—nothing.
Then a voice slides through the stone. Male. Calm. Too calm.
“You shouldn’t have found that.”
The words seep through the door like poison.
My blood runs cold.
I slam my hand against the metal again, knife clenched white-knuckled in my other fist. “Who are you?” My voice scrapes out. “Say it to my face.”
Silence.
Then the footsteps turn.
Retreating.Unhurried.Confident.
Whoever he is, he isn’t worried about what comes next.
He’s certain.Certain I’ll stay here.Certain no one will find me.Certain Santino won’t know where to look.
The fading echo of boots disappears, leaving me alone in the chamber beneath their church. Beneath their altar. Beneath their god.
I stand with my forehead against the cold door, breathing too fast, the chill leeching into my skin. My fingers twitch against the metal.
This isn’t where it ends. This isn’t where my father’s innocence dies a second time.
I force myself back.One step.Another.
The lantern’s glow shrinks, shadows stretching long and distorted across the walls. The smear of dried blood on the floor looks darker now, almost fresh—like it’s waiting for a new body.
Maybe mine.
“Think,” I whisper, dragging a shaky hand through my hair. “Come on, Pia. Think.”
I sweep the lantern around the chamber—walls, ceiling, floor—searching for anything. A vent, a seam, a crack.
Nothing.
This room wasn't for escape. It was for secrets.And corpses.
My gaze drops to the space where the lockbox sat, then to my coat, heavy against my ribs.
The cassette.The drive.The papers.
Evidence powerful enough to bring the Rivas empire to its knees.Evidence someone will bury me alive to keep hidden.
They know.Whoever locked that door knows exactly what I found—and what I intend to do with it.
Santino’s name hits me like a blow to the sternum.
Is he part of this?Does he know I’m here?Is he asleep upstairs while someone under his roof tries to erase me?
My vision blurs for a moment. I picture Santino’s hands crushing Rocco’s throat. The way he whispered, You are with me.
Am I?
Or did I just carve my own grave into his family’s foundations?
The silence presses in, thick, hungry. My lantern coughs once—the flame dipping low before catching again.
I tighten my grip on my knife and lift my chin.
Fine.
They locked me in.
They think that makes me powerless.
They forgot something.
They didn’t bury me alone.
They buried me with the one thing they can’t kill.
The truth.
And if I get out — if I survive — the evidence in my coat won’t just burn the Rivas name.
It will burn the man who just turned this chamber into my tomb.