Small.Thin.Scared.
Atlas had given him his jacket without being asked.I remembered that too.Watching him drape it over Alessio’s shaking shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.Like family didn’t need to be explained.
Now Alessio was gone.
I hated that the world kept moving when ours had shattered.
I leaned closer, resting my forehead against Atlas’s arm.
“You’re not allowed to die,” I whispered.“Not after he gave his life for you.”
My chest ached like something inside it was tearing apart.
“You were his hero,” I reminded him.“You know that, right?He followed you like you hung the stars.And now he’s gone because he was doing what he always did — protecting his brothers.”
I swallowed hard.
“And I don’t know how to live in a world where that kind of loyalty no longer exists.”
The room felt too small.Too quiet.Like even the air was holding its breath.
I stayed there, head bowed, holding Atlas’s hand like it was the last real thing left in the world.
And for the first time in my life, I was afraid.
Not of enemies.
Not of war.
Not of blood.
I was afraid of waking up tomorrow and having one less brother to love.
And I wasn’t sure my heart could survive that.
Raze Cavalho wasn’tsomeone you invited into your life.He was something you unleashed.Sure, he was my first cousin, but he was the craziest one amongst us, and so we limited our interactions with him as much as we possibly could.Things had become particularly awkward also after he lost his wife and son to the underworld.I’d done my best to drag him out of the dark, and for a while it had worked
My thumb hovered over his name.A ghost.A promise.A mistake I’d sworn I’d never make again.But the decision cemented itself the more my rage festered.
I thought of Alessio and his stupid grin.Of the way he had believed the world was beautiful, and the way his life had ended with his blood soaked into marble.
I hit call.
It rang twice.
“Well, well,” a familiar voice drawled, lazy and dangerous, “If it isn’t my long lost cousin Marcello Cavalho.To what do I owe this resurrection?”
The only comfort in making that call was knowing he’d never erased my number—not after all these years.
The same way I’d never erased his.
We’d gone long stretches without speaking, each of us buried in our own battles.But brotherhood isn’t measured in phone calls.It’s measured in the certainty that when you finally reach out, the other man will answer.
“They killed Alessio,” I told him.
Silence swallowed the line.
Raze knew exactly what that meant.