If this were the past, I might have felt protected. Now his words were only background noise, meaningless as the hum of the fluorescent lights above. The sting of the blade was nothing compared to the marks left when he and Silvia had acted together—wounds that went deeper than flesh, carved into the very marrow of my trust.
Just as the procedure ended, a short alert sounded in the room. I did not need to look to know who it was. It was the exclusive tone of his private communicator—three ascending notes, like a bird's call. Reserved only for Silvia. She had always liked making her presence known that way, marking her territory even in her absence.
Giorgio's body tensed instantly, every muscle coiling with an urgency he had never shown for me. He stepped aside to answer, turning his back, though he could not fully lower his voice.
"What is it?" he asked urgently, his tone stripped of all performance. "I'm coming right now."
A few seconds later, he returned to me, his expression already composed into something resembling concern. "Something came up with the Family," he said smoothly. "I need to handle it. I'll come back for you soon."
I did not ask any questions. The answer had been written long ago in stolen glances and secret meetings. He was only reading it out loud now, and I had stopped listening to the lies.
People continued to move through the room. Couples sat together on the wooden benches lining the walls, speaking softly in Italian and English, their voices blending into a low murmur of shared anxiety. Someone trembled before the physician's blade, and another hand immediately closed around theirs—rough knuckles, scarred from work, but gentle in that moment.
"It's all right," a man whispered to his bride, his accent thick with the old country. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Just a little, it'll be over soon," another leaned down and kissed their partner's forehead, leaving a mark of devotion more binding than any blood oath.
I watched them from across the room, my bandaged palm resting in my lap. These were the small mercies I had never been given—the quiet reassurances, the presence that meant something. Giorgio had offered words, but never this. Never the simple truth of staying.