Page 46 of Empire
He trusts me completely—said like a gift and a confession. Said while I’m already standing with one foot inside the betrayal that will gut him.
I pull him down and kiss him before he can see whatever flashes across my face.
Later, when he’s half over me and half beside me and our breathing has finally stopped trying to outrun itself, he presses his lips to my temple and says, “Sleep.”
I turn into him and tuck my face against his throat, because if I sleep at all tonight, it will only happen there.
His fingers slide into my hair and stay. “Salvatore.”
The way he says my name now is quieter than it used to be. Less challenge, more possession and care. I don’t know when that shift happens. I only know I notice it more tonight because everything already feels terminal.
I hum. “Yes,cuore mio?”
He hesitates a second, which, on Ruslan, counts as a full confession. Then he says, “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
My eyes sting, so I keep them shut. “I know.”
He waits, but I don’t say more.
After a while, his hand moves from my hair to the back of my neck, holding me there, and in the dark, I feel the trust in him like a wound left open on purpose. No suspicion, no calculations. Just certainty that if I don’t speak, it’s because I can’t yet, not because I won’t ever.
He trusts me completely.
That’s how my last night with him ends. Not with rough sex or even with the confession already bruising my ribs from the inside. It ends with his hand warm at the back of my neck, hisbreathing evening out as sleep finally drags him under, and one last thing spoken into the dark in a voice so low I almost miss it.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, half asleep already. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I lie awake in his arms with tears I refuse to let fall and think,no, cuore mio. That’s my part.
And because the world is monstrous. Because love never arrives in our lives without bringing its own blade. Because the worst things are always softened by the shape of trust before they cut deepest, I turn my face into his throat and let him hold me while I memorize the sound of a man trusting me enough to sleep.
I let myself drown in one last night before it all burns.
Ruslan
exile – Taylor Swift & Bon Iver / 21 Gun Salute – Catch Your Breath
Weleaveinathree-car convoy that feels too much like a funeral procession and not enough like one, because funerals at least have the decency to admit what they are.
The summons came at dawn and tasted wrong before I even broke the seal.
Emergency summit. Immediate attendance. Full family representation required.
Those meetings don’t happen unless somebody’s already decided blood is an acceptable cost.
The summit hall is in Milan this time, one of the restored family buildings. Marble steps, bronze doors, and security at every entrance. The sort of place men pretend is neutral because the floors are expensive enough to absorb blood without staining.
I feel it the second we walk in.
The air isn’t merely tense. It’s arranged.
Guards are positioned slightly differently than usual. Too many men from Conti’s side are near the eastern wall. Two unfamiliar Americans in dark suits are standing with the Moretti Capo, rather than by the back doors, where outside observers are usually parked. Marchetti is avoiding our eyes entirely, which means he’s been bought or threatened and still hasn’t decided which is more humiliating. Barone looking overeager, as if he’s been given advance knowledge and mistaken it for importance.
The room is full before we take our seats, but it still feels as though everyone’s waiting for the actual performance to start.
And then I see Salvatore.
He won’t meet my eyes immediately. That, by itself, wouldn’t mean anything to another man. We’ve survived too many years of rooms like this to be careless with our eyes.
