Page 31 of Until You Break
The first smell when the door opened was incense. The second was gun oil.
We climbed. Warm stone under my soles. Inside, the air was cooler, too clean. Flowers tried to hide the polish-and-metal edge. Failed.
It wasn’t a church. But someone had dressed it like one. Chairs in straight white rows. A small altar. A priest with sweat at his hairline. Bellandi to the right. My captors, knives dressed in black. My family to the left, powerless Valentis bracketed by Bellandi guards with open holsters. Jackets gaped on purpose. Safeties clicked once when I slowed. Final.
Enzo pushed to his feet, voice raw. "What are you doing to him?" he began. A guard closed on him, seizing an arm and forcing him back into the seat. Another palm fell across his mouth, blunt and final. He sank down, eyes bright with protest but muzzled by force.
Safeties whispered again. Leather creaked.
“Proceed,” the priest said, voice thin.
My throat closed. Heat gathered at my hairline. Incense curled thick. My hands wanted to shake. I made them stop. My knees wanted to buckle. I made them lock.
“Do you, Emilio Valenti…”
The priest’s voice cracked. Incense thickened in my throat. For a second I pictured it, saying no. The echo of safeties clicking louder, bodies folding before they hit the ground. My knees nearly bent with the thought.
“No, I—” The word stuck. “I can’t…this isn’t mine—please—” The words tangled, breaking apart as safeties clicked louder around me.
Damiano moved. Hand to my jaw, turning me up into him. Thumb under my chin, fulcrum. Smoke and cedar on his skin, iron from the cuff links.
“Say it,” he said, weight sharp as a blade. “Or I’ll make you beg instead, and you’ll do it in front of your father.”
Heat ran through me, sharp as shame. My body knew what to do when he spoke. I hated that.
“Yes,” I said. It carried.
Papà’s hand hit wood. Enzo swore. Bellandi laughter rippled. Papà’s knuckles whitened against the pew, veins sharp as rope, the sound of his teeth grinding louder in my head than the priest’s words.
“And do you—” to Damiano.
“I do.”
“Amen—”
“Try Latin,” Alessandro murmured, not looking up. “It sounds more expensive.”
Damiano gave him a dry glance. “If it makes you feel richer, brother, then let him choke on Latin.”
“Benedicat vos—” the priest began.
“Not you,” Luca said cheerfully. “Him.” He pointed his glass at Damiano like he was introducing a headline act. “Our brother, our problem, your future headache.”
Damiano’s mouth curved. “Better my headache than yours. At least this one looks good in black.”
I stared past them, throat hot with incense. Papà’s gaze pinned me.
“Blink,” Damiano told him without turning. “Your eyes are getting bloodshot.”
Papà’s jaw worked, muscle ticking like a clock that wanted to break. “I will unmake you for this.”
“You already tried,” Marcella said softly. “You failed. Note the theme.”
The air tasted like iron and lilies. My palms itched. I made them flat.
Noise rose. Reflex applause. The Valenti side was still.
Damiano stepped in. Hand on my jaw, the other at my neck. I twisted. “Don’t.”
