Page 91 of Knight
I wait.
I do not perform. The grin is dead. The charm is dead. The smooth, careful, curated version of Romeo Rivas that has gotten me through every room and every woman and every conversation I have ever been afraid of — that man is gone. What is sitting on this stool is the thing that was always underneath. A boy who loved his brothers. A boy who made a phone call. A boy who opened a door and spent five years listening to it slam shut inside his own skull every night before sleep.
Forty seconds. Forty-one. Forty-two.
She is going to leave. She has to. Everyone leaves when they see what is underneath. That is the rule. That is the contract. You perform, they stay. You stop performing, they calculate the cost of what they are looking at and they decide the math does not work and they stand up and walk toward a door and you let them go because letting go is the only thing you were ever actually good at.
I sit on the stool in my kitchen with my hands on my thighs and the Patek Philippe ticking Giovanni's dead rhythm against my wrist and I wait for the woman I love to do the thing everyone does.
Fifty seconds.
Nova has not moved.
She Does Not Leave
She says my name.
Spoken so quietly the refrigerator almost buries it — but my ears catch it the way my ears have caught every sound this woman has made since the night she stood in a hallway and told me I was failing.
"Romeo."
She does not say it the way people say it when they want something from me. She does not say it the way women have said it in beds I do not remember, wrapping the syllables in performance, turning my name into a sound designed to flatter or seduce or hold my attention long enough to extract whatever they came for.
She says it the way you say the name of something you have been searching for and have finally found. Quiet. Unadorned. Stripped down to the bare sound of it — recognition and nothing else.
Something breaks.
I feel it happen the way you feel a bone give — a structural failure deep inside the architecture, load-bearing, the wall I have held in place for five years crumbling from the foundation upward. The charm was on one side. The guilt on the other. And between them, mortared with whiskey and performance and the desperate fiction that the man on the surface was all there was — five years of holding.
Gone.
My eyes fill. The heat arrives so fast I cannot blink it away and I lock every muscle in my face to keep the sound from escaping because I have never cried in front of another human being. Giovanni's sons do not cry. Giovanni made sure of that. He cured us of tears the way you cure leather — through pressure and heat until the soft thing becomes something stiff and unyielding and useful.
The tears fall anyway.
Nova reaches across the counter.
Her hands slide over mine — small, warm, the callused palms of a woman who has spent two years carrying everything alone — and she wraps her fingers around my fists and holds on. I grip back. Hard. Hard enough that the bones in her knuckles shift beneath my fingers and I know I am hurting her and she does not pull away.
She does not pull away.
"Look at me." Her voice is steady. The voice she uses with Tomás when the world is falling apart and her only job is to be the thing that does not fall. "Romeo. Look at me."
I lift my eyes. The kitchen is blurred. Her face swims behind the salt water I cannot stop and I see her — brown skin and wild hair and dark eyes holding mine with the ferocity of a woman who has heard the worst thing I have ever done and has decided it is survivable.
"You were seventeen," she says. "You were a kid trying to save your brothers from a man who should have been saving them himself."
"I killed him." The words scrape out of me like glass. "The door I opened—"
"You opened a door. Someone else walked through it. Someone else put a snake in a box and carried it into his bedroom and watched him die. You were seventeen years old and you were trying to protect the people you loved and the world punished you for it. That is what happened."
Her thumbs trace circles against my knuckles. Small. Steady. The rhythm of a woman who grounds everything she touches.
"I am sitting right here," she says. "I heard every word. And I am sitting right here."
The kitchen holds us. The drawings on the fridge. The worksheet. The sugar packets she never cleared away. The paring knife on its napkin with apple juice drying on the blade. All the ordinary evidence of a life I was sure I was about to lose.
I stand. She stands. The counter is between us and then it is not — I am around it, pulling her into me, my arms locked around her body and my face buried in her hair and the sound I have been holding behind my teeth for five years finally breaks loose against her neck. It is ugly. Raw. The shattered exhale of a man who has been holding his breath since he was seventeen and has just been told he is allowed to breathe.
