Chapter 17 – Viviana
I turn the key in the lock, and the door groans open. Fog hangs low outside my childhood home, gray and damp, curling around the porch as Dario steps up behind me.
The house sits still, like it’s waiting for me to break it open. Dust drifts in the thin sunlight cutting through cracked blinds, settling on white sheets draped over furniture.
I haven’t been back since the funeral. My boots scuff the floorboards, and they creak loud, sharp enough to pierce the quiet. The faint scent of old lavender and mildew stings my nose—time’s locked grief into these walls.
Dario shuts the door with a soft thud. He stands there, hands in his pockets, dark jeans and leather jacket making him look too alive for this dead place.
I lead him into the living room. Nothing’s moved since Dad passed—since Camila overdosed upstairs and left us with nothing but echoes. The couch sits under its sheet, a ghost of itself, and the mantle holds frames I can’t look at yet.
My fingers brush one anyway. It’s her—golden hair spilling over her shoulders, laughing mid-spin at some party, eyes bright with a fire I never had.
I step to the old record player next. The needle’s stuck, vinyl scratched from her favorite jazz record spinning too many times. I lift the arm, set it down, but no sound comes—just a hiss of dust.
A piano waits in the corner, one key chipped and broken. I press it, and the flat note cuts through me, raw and off-tune. My chest tightens, but I don’t pull away.
“She died in the tub upstairs,” I say, my voice softer than I want.
Dario stands near the couch, watching me. He doesn’t speak, just lets his dark eyes follow my every move, steady and unyielding.
“They said it was a bad mix,” I go on, staring at her picture again. “But it wasn’t. It was a chain. And someone like you handed her the link.”
His face shifts—just a flicker in his eyes, a tightening I catch before it’s gone. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t move, just takes it like a man used to carrying worse.
“You didn’t kill her,” I say, stepping closer to him. “But your world did.”
I turn to the window. My fingers press the fogged glass, cold and slick under my skin, smudging the gray morning outside.
“So don’t tell me I’m still an outsider to this fight,” I say, facing him again. My voice hardens, cutting through the stillness like a blade.
He nods once, sharp and firm. “I won’t.”
I hold his gaze, letting it sink in. Then I turn back to the room, to the ghosts I’ve dragged him here to meet.
The air carries that faint lavender bite, mixed with mildew and memory. I move to the couch, pull the sheet off slow. Dust puffs up, and I sit, sinking into cushions that still hold her shape.
Dario eases down beside me. His knee brushes mine, and I feel the heat of him, solid and real against this faded past.
“She was fierce,” I say, staring at the ceiling where cracks spider out. “Funny too. Wild in a way I never figured out how to be.”
He leans back, hands resting on his thighs. “Sounds like she left a mark.”
“She did,” I say, my voice dipping low. “Got hooked fast. Quietly. Pills traced back to Caldera routes.”
His fingers twitch, a quick jerk he can’t hide. I see it, and it digs into me, sharp and cold.
“One of many,” I say, bitterness creeping in. “Swept up in their quiet death. I never told anyone.” I look at him, full on now. “Never found the supplier. But I knew—deep down—someone like you moved that cargo.”
He exhales, a rough sound that catches in his throat. Doesn’t argue, just lets it sit there between us, heavy and true.
“I don’t blame you,” I say, softer now. “But I don’t spare you either.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and steady. “I don’t expect you to.”
I stand, restless, and pace back to the piano. My fingers hover over the keys, then press a note that rings clear this time—high and haunting.
“I used to play for her,” I say, holding the sound until it fades. “She’d dance, spinning until she crashed into something and laughed.”
He rises too, steps closer. “She sounds like a storm.”
“She was,” I say, turning to him. “And she’s why I’m here—why I’m with you.”
He stops an arm’s length away. “To burn it down?”
“To bury it,” I correct, voice firm. “All of it—her ghost, their poison, this house.”
He nods, and something settles between us—understanding, maybe trust. His hand brushes my arm, light but there.
I step back, needing space from that touch. “I kept this locked up too long,” I say, moving to the mantle again.
The picture stares back—Camila mid-laugh, frozen in a moment I can’t reach. “She’d hate me hiding like this.”
Dario stays where he is, watching. “You’re not hiding now.”
“No,” I say, tracing the frame’s edge. “I’m done with that.”
I turn to the window again, vapor pressing thick against the glass. “She deserved more than a tub and a bottle of pills.”
“She did,” he says, voice low but sure. “And you’re giving it to her.”
I nod, feeling that truth settle deep. “But it’s not just for her anymore.”
He steps closer again, boots quiet on the worn floor. “It’s for you too.”
“Yeah,” I say, meeting his eyes. “And for us—what we’re building.”
His hand brushes mine this time, fingers grazing my knuckles. “Then we finish it.”
I pull my hand back, not ready for that yet. “We will,” I say, voice steady. “But I need to see it first—where she ended.”
I head for the stairs, wood creaking under my weight. Dario follows, his steps heavier, echoing mine.
The upstairs hall stretches long and dim. Dust coats the banister, and I trail my fingers through it, leaving a clean streak.
Her room’s door hangs ajar. I push it open, and the bed’s still made—pink quilt faded, pillows flat from years untouched.
I stop at the bathroom door next. My hand rests on the knob, cold and stiff, and I freeze there, breath catching.
“She’s in here,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Or what’s left of her.”
Dario stands behind me, close but not crowding. “You don’t have to go in.”
“I know,” I say, but I turn the knob anyway. The door swings open, and the tub looms white and empty.
Tiles gleam dull under the weak light. A stain lingers near the drain—faint, brown, a mark time couldn’t scrub out.
“She died here,” I say, stepping inside. “Cold, alone.”
He follows, stopping at the threshold. “You don’t need to carry that.”
“I don’t,” I say, turning to him. “But I won’t forget it either.”
I kneel by the tub, fingers brushing the edge. “I found her bracelet after—silver, with a little charm shaped like a star.”
He crouches beside me. “Where is it now?”
“Buried with her,” I say, voice cracking just once. “She’d want it that way.”
He nods, resting a hand on the floor. “She sounds like she’d fight too.”
“She would,” I say, standing. “That’s why I am.”
I step out of the bathroom, back into the hall. Dario rises, following me, and we stand there, facing each other.
“I never told anyone,” I say again, softer now.
“You’re telling me,” he says, voice steady. “That’s enough.”
“It is,” I say, nodding. “For now.”
I head back downstairs, boots thudding on each step. Dario’s right behind me, a shadow I don’t mind.
We stop in the living room again. I look at the piano, the pictures, the sheetless couch—pieces of her I can’t shake.
“I’m burning this place,” I say, voice firm. “After we’re done with Caldera.”
He steps beside me, hands in his pockets again. “I’ll bring the matches.”
I laugh, short and dry, and it feels good. “Good.”
“I’ve moved crates I didn’t question,” Dario says suddenly. “Didn’t care what was inside. It was just weight. Just product. The cost of climbing.”
“And now?” I ask.
Dario lifts his eyes. There’s no hesitation in them. Only determination. “Now I break the ladder.”
I nod and move toward the kitchen. I walk to the lower cabinet—the one Camila used to hide cookies in, swearing she was “saving them for after piano practice.”
It still creaks the same when I open it.
There’s a rusted tin box tucked in the back. I pull it out, brush the grime from the lid, and open it.
Inside: a chain.
Camila’s locket.
The match to mine.
The silver is dull, almost pewter now, and the clasp is bent from years of being opened and closed and opened again. There’s a crack in the casing that runs down one edge—Dad tried to fix it once with glue, but it held wrong.
I close my fingers around it and turn back to him.
“She wasn’t just a girl who got lost,” I say. “She was my girl. My sister. The reason I stayed alive some nights when I couldn’t find a single thing worth breathing for.”
I step forward. Hold the locket out.
Dario looks at it like it might bite.
“You destroy the shipment,” I say, “and you carry her name when you do.”
He takes it slowly. Doesn’t put it on. Just holds it in his palm, thumb tracing the cracked edge.
“She’s not a file,” I whisper. “Not a cautionary tale. She’s the reason I walk into fire now instead of away from it.”
His mouth moves, just a fraction.
“I will,” he says. “For her.” He looks at me again, more quiet now. “And for you.”
I exhale. It doesn’t come easy.
We sink to the floor. The tile is cold through my jeans, and the light creeping through the blinds is pale and strange—like the sun doesn’t know if it’s allowed to shine here anymore.
He leans back against the cabinet. Our shoulders almost touch, but not quite. The locket sits in his palm like a coin of blood debt.
“What was she like?” he asks, after a long minute.
I smile, but it tastes like iron.
“She once punched a boy in the mouth for calling my hair ‘bramble.’ Then cried all night because his tooth chipped.”
He chuckles. A breath more than a laugh.
“She wore black nail polish even when it chipped off by day two. Thought tarot cards were real, swore she could tell when people were lying—just by the way they blinked.”
Dario tilts his head. “Could she?”
I nod. “Every time.”
We fall quiet again.
But it’s not empty.
Outside, the haze is starting to lift, bleeding into weak sun. Light scatters across the floor in gray shards. The kind that doesn’t warm. Just outlines what’s been there too long.
Dario pockets the locket. Not with ceremony—just with certainty. Like he’s tucked a blade there. Or a vow.
“I’ve been burning things for years,” he says. “Mostly bridges. Sometimes people.” He glances toward the door. “This’ll be different.”
“Why?” I ask.
He looks at me.
“Because it matters this time.”
And I believe him.
We sit there a little longer, not speaking. Just breathing in the cold air of a house that never learned how to let go of its ghosts.
I reach out finally and rest my fingers lightly on his knee. Not to ground myself—but to ground him. We’re not drowning anymore. We’re circling a storm we chose.
Dario covers my hand with his.
It’s not romantic. Not dramatic.
It’s real.
A warning to the world that what’s coming won’t be stopped with rules or mercy or a name like Caldera.
It ends now.
With us.