Page 163 of The Ache That Stayed

I used to dismiss that kind of sentiment as weakness.

Until her. Until I realised that everything before Roxanne had just been endurance. Breathing between disasters. Not living.

She stirred in her sleep, her fingers curling into the sheets as though she were holding onto something even now. Or maybe trying not to let go. My grip tightened around the glass, the cut of it biting faintly into my palm, and just like that, everything I had held back since the hospital began to surface.

After she left for Mumbai, I stopped pretending I didn’t already know. The way she had broken in that hospital hadn’t been confusion or shock. It was the aftermath of crossing a line that changed people.

I gave it time. Not for her—for myself. Because I needed to walk into what came next without hesitation, without doubt, without losing control.

It took nearly a week before I went to see Santino. Because I knew exactly what I would do if I saw him too soon. And I don’t strike when I’m uncertain.

By the time I reached the hospital, he had already discharged himself. Santino was never the kind of man to stay where he didn’t need to be. But I knew where he would go. There was only one place that made sense currently.

I found him in the cottage. In her room.

The space felt wrong without her, but her presence lingered everywhere. In the air, in the sheets, in the faint trace of her scent that hadn’t yet faded. A familiar ache settled low in my chest.

He sat on the edge of the bed, a t-shirt clenched loosely in his hand. Hers. He didn’t look up when I walked in.

“She’s gone,” he said, his voice rough, like it had been dragged through gravel.

I didn’t answer.

“She told me to leave,” he continued after a moment. “Said if I stayed, I’d lose her forever.” A hollow breath left him, closer to a laugh but without the humour. “I came back anyway.”

Whatever restraint remained disappeared. I crossed the distance and hit him hard enough to send him off the bed. He didn’t brace, didn’t fight it—just took the impact like he had expected it. I dragged him up again and hit him a second time, harder. This time I saw the blood bloom through his shirt where the wound had reopened, dark and spreading.

He glanced down briefly.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

I didn’t stop. My hand closed around his throat, tightening just enough to cut off his breath without dropping him, forcing his gaze to mine.

“How long had you been planning?” I asked, my voice clipped, controlled in a way that made it worse.

His brow furrowed.

“Planning what?” he spoke through ragged breaths.

“To touch her.” My grip tightened. “To fuck her.” Another step closer. “To decide she belonged to you.”

I backed him up to the wall and shoved him against it without loosening my grip on his neck. His head hit it with a dull thud.

He groaned on impact. “I didn’t plan it.”

A hollow laugh left me then, cold and sharp, devoid of anything resembling humour.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Why do you think I left two years ago?” he shot back.

That landed harder than anything else. Because I already knew the answer.

Her.

It had always been her.

“Ti fidava,” I said, the words rough. “Eri la famigghia… e mi tradisti.”