Page 120 of Buried in Blood
I swallow. “I don’t have much to say.”
Dante’s voice is low. “You’ve earned the right to be quiet. But when you’re ready… I want to know you.”
I look up. “Why?”
“Because you’re not just a replacement. You’re not a symbol or a tool or some broken girl he left behind.” His jaw tightens. “You’re a person.”
It takes me a moment to believe that.
Another to let myself respond.
“I was in foster care,” I say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “They weren’t bad people. Just tired. They killed themselves when I was a teenager. Pills and a note.”
Dante’s eyes flicker.
I press on.
“I didn’t stay after that. Didn’t want to go through the system again. I lived in a shelter for a while. Then nowhere. Then… there.”
There.
The word tastes like ash.
Dante doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pity me. That’s whyI can say it.
“I used to sleep behind this bodega in winter, in New York. That’s where my foster family lived. The heat from the exhaust vent would keep me alive. I used to pretend the fumes were music. That if I just closed my eyes, the city would sing me to sleep.”
Something shifts in his expression.
Not grief.
Not empathy.
Recognition.
“I know that song,” he murmurs. “I lived under an overpass for three months. Ate cold beans with a stolen spoon. Thought if I held my breath long enough, I’d disappear.”
Silence settles between us like a blanket. Not heavy. Not empty.
Shared.
“I didn’t think I’d make it out,” I whisper.
“You did.”
“I’m not out.”
Dante leans forward. “But you’re not there anymore either. And as long as you’re here, I’ll make sure you stay out of hell.”
My eyes sting.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Because someone should’ve done that for my sister. Because no one did it for you. You’re my sister too. And because if I don’t, I’ll never stop being the man who let Damien win.”
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking again.
Dante stands, crosses to the cot. He doesn’t touch me. Just sets the thermos closer and slides a folded hoodie across the sheets.
