Page 31 of The Ache That Stayed

He huffed. “And risk you riding it and killing yourself? No chance.”

I smacked his chest.

We sat side by side, watching the sun slowly disappear into the sea.

“Will you be in touch?” I asked.

“I promise.”

“And if you don’t?”

He smiled sideways. “You can kill me.”

CHAPTER 9

Marcello

The phone rang at three in the morning.

I was awake before the second ring.

When you live the life I live, a call at that hour never means anything good—especially from her.

Romano was asleep down the hall. The house was dark, quiet except for the sea grinding itself against the cliffs below. I let it ring once more, enough to steady my breathing, enough to calm the instinct already tightening in my chest—then answered.

“Amore?” I was already standing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

At first she was silent. There is a particular kind of silence that exists before bad news. I’d lived inside it long enough to recognise its shape.

Her sigh carried through the line, heavy, uneven. Measured in a way that didn’t sound like her.

“When are you coming?” she asked instead.

No hello. No I miss you. No attempt at normal conversation.

My spine went cold. That was worse than panic.

“When I said I would. The day after.” I said carefully.

“Why?”

Another pause. I heard her swallow.

“He’s here.”

Two words. Three syllables. That was all.

They hit like three bullets to the centre of my chest. Clean. Precise.

He’s here.

No name. There was only one man in the world who could occupy a sentence like that without introduction.

I stepped out onto the terrace, pushing the doors open. The Sicilian night was cool, salt heavy in the air. The horizon was nothing but black water and distant lights.

I had always known this would happen. Men like Santino just don’t disappear. They step back and wait. They let silence do the work. Hoping time will dull whatever edge once existed.