23. QUIET HOUR
QUIET HOUR
A thick silence enveloped the room, and Rocco was making blind attempts to muffle his sobs, which had hung in the air around Rio's dead body. With his trembling hand, Rocco grasped the knife tightly, his eyes filled with sorrow. He must have kept the body of Rio in a state of serenity; he plunged the blade deep into Rio's heart once more, as into the abyss of his torment. He sobbed, his face bending forward, and his voice at a whisper.
"He was like a son to me," he muttered, his voice cracking with the weight of it.
Dhalia stooped closer, kneeling beside him as her composure was about to break. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He loved you like a father," she whispered, her voice soft but steady. Though her heart was breaking, she held her face firm, needing to be the strong one for them both.
Rocco's body went taut as he fought to pull himself together. Dhalia squeezed his shoulder. "What do we tell her?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
"That he left," Rocco said, an edge creeping into his voice. "That he saw what she'd done, and he walked away."
Dhalia's hand fell from his shoulder as her face contorted in sorrow. "It will break her heart," she said, her voice breaking with a slight quaver.
"But she'll survive," he replied, clenching his jaw. "And we need her. If she learns he died for her… she'll follow him."
Dhalia nodded as a tear escaped down her cheek. She watched Rocco carefully lift Chiara in his arms; her form stirred as she drifted back into consciousness. He carried her back to her room, preparing himself to weave the story that would tear her heart apart but keep her alive.
Left in the dim light, Dhalia looked down at Rio's lifeless body—the silent witness to all that had been taken from him. She thought of Chiara, of the hollow life that would now be hers, of Rocco's words—a twisted, noble lie to save them all. Ruby was next in her mind—pained by longing as she stood there, alone with the shadows of the past. She whirled around and up the stairs two at a time, her feet pounding against each step in a rhythmic crescendo, her chest heaving by the time she reached the attic. She hauled herself up the ladder, opened the window wide, and climbed out onto the rooftop; the cool night air nipped at her face. The silence of the world stretched around her, broken only by the faint, haunting melody of circus music from somewhere far away.
She reached the edge of the roof, turned her back, and looked to the sky as if for one final glance. "Ashes to ashes, flame to flame," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I am with you." Then, the sound of music still ringing in her ears, she launched herself into the darkness below.