Page 155 of The Ache That Stayed

A weight settled beneath my ribs.

Whatever had happened had shifted the ground beneath us. I could feel it without understanding it yet, like a fracture beneath the surface that hadn’t fully revealed itself. And for the first time since I had known her, there was a distance I couldn’t immediately close.

“Now?” I asked.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No explanation. Just that. I kept looking at her, waiting—for anything. A reason. A glance. Anything that told me this was still within my control, that whatever this was could still be contained, understood, managed.

She gave me nothing.

And for the first time since I’d known her, I understood that whatever had happened in that warehouse had changed more than the blood on her hands.

I just didn’t know how much.

“Alright,” I said finally. “I’ll make arrangements.”

She nodded once, still not looking at me. And that stayed with me longer than anything else. More than the blood. More than the silence. More than the unanswered questions.

CHAPTER 42

Roxanne

The journey to Mumbai was a blur of flashes and noise. The city felt louder than it should have. Maybe because my mind refused to quiet.

Too many things running at once. None of them settling. Thoughts colliding, breaking apart before they could form into anything I could hold onto. I felt like a kaleidoscope of emotions, everything shifting too fast to make sense of.

Marcello had arranged everything, of course. He always did. Care woven into action rather than words. Even now—especially now—he made sure I was taken care of without asking anything in return. Without asking anything at all. And somehow, that made it worse.

Everything after the paramedics arrived blurred into a shapeless, deafening roar. I remember the sound first. Sirens cutting through the air, voices overlapping, hands trying to pull me away, and the way I fought with a desperation that didn’t even make sense to me. My fingers were locked around Santino, gripping him like if I let go—even for a second—he would disappear.

They kept telling me to move. To let them work. To step back. I didn’t. Not until they forced me into the ambulance beside him, not until the doors shut and sealed us inside with the sound of his breathing—too shallow, too uneven—and machines doing what his body couldn’t.

I don’t remember the drive. Only fragments. The way my hands wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how tightly I held onto him. The way someone kept asking me questions I couldn’t understand, couldn’t process, couldn’t answer. My entire focus was on him. Only him. Blood and bile coated the back of my throat.

And then when we arrived, everything moved at once. Doors opening, light flooding in. Voices sharper. Faster. And when they pulled him away from me, then I finally let go.

I stood there long after they disappeared through the emergency doors, my hands still lifted slightly in front of me like I hadn’t realised he was no longer within reach. As though I was waiting to catch something that had already fallen. And then I just stayed. I don’t know how long.

Time didn’t move the way it was supposed to. It stretched. Warped. Folded in on itself until everything felt suspended in a moment that wouldn’t end. He was gone from my hands. Just… out of reach. And somehow that felt worse.

Death wasn’t always clean. It didn’t arrive with certainty. Sometimes it just hovered—between staying and leaving—while you stood there, waiting to find out which one it would choose.

People spoke about karma like it brought balance. Like the world kept score. Like pain was repaid in equal measure.

But standing there, staring at those doors—I didn’t feel balance. I didn’t feel justice. It felt like a wound that refused to close, bleeding beneath everything else. And whatever came next, wouldn’t fix it.

Someone spoke to me. A man. Irish. Older.

Sean.

He offered me water. Asked me something I didn’t catch. Stayed close enough that I knew he was there, but far enough that he didn’t try to touch me. I think I nodded at something. I wasn’t sure.

I was just trying to hold everything in. Because if I let it out—if I let even a fraction of what was building inside me surface—I knew it wouldn’t stop. So I contained it.

I sat there, staring at the doors they had taken him through, focusing on that one fixed point like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

Until—