PAOLA
His sense of humor is a damper on her horror — but not a strong one. Amusement cuts through the fright, but it flees before it has a chance to make a mark. A corner of Paola’s mouth quirks for a moment, though he does not see. Words are the only things that will reach him, his gaze locked to the ground; she wonders if he wants it to swallow him up. If he wants the pain to stop no matter the cost, even if the cost is his life.
She doesn’t blame him. If she was a better woman, she would want him to have faith and choose life. If she was a kinder woman, she would try to set him free. Instead, Paola watches, and she waits for him to speak. Because he’s right: she wants only to give him what will ease her fear and this guilt of being a witness to the evil things people do to one another. It’s all they know, she wants to tell him. Montague or Capulet or completely unaffiliated with either, they are all the same. When the monster bares its teeth, it demands a response; it demands to see what you are capable of.
Some devour the beast; others are devoured. Paola has a feeling that Orion is still in the midst of fighting, from the sound of his voice alone. Verona has yet to see whether he will fall or if he will rise. Paola wills herself to be apathetic towards either option, but she finds herself wanting him to survive — if only because she will always see herself in those who are suffering.
After a beat of surprise that he’s actually making a request of her, Paola answers: “I can take a message.”
Although, she does regret accepting when he stumbles over his train of thought again and again. Her thoughts begin to wander before he snaps it back to him with one name: Marcelo. Paola can’t help the choking sound she makes. She recovers quickly, as if that will undo the slip she’s just made. With a smooth and untroubled voice, Paola asks, “Marcelo is the one who did this to you?” He doesn’t need to answer for her to know that they did. “Do you really want me to deliver that message?” A single brow arches as she adds, “Look at what they did to you already. Why poke the beast that’s already bitten off a leg?”
“I’ll tell Rosaline that you didn’t leave.” She doesn’t point out that he did, in fact, leave. It’s his intention that he wants to express, but that’s never enough. It’s not the right thing to say to a victim of brutal and merciless torture, but Paola is sure he already knows: when you are left behind, their mere intentions are a flicker of candlelight before the wind snuffs it out. All that matters is what is left behind: cold, empty and endless silence, and an empty side of the bed.
But she’s not so cruel to tell him this. Instead, Paola comes closer and says, “Now to my question. I want to know everything you do about Valentina, and if you’ve ever run across the name Gabriele.”
She thinks she’s covered it, Orion can see as his eyes snap upward toward her face. Not good enough. He heard her, when he said Marcelo’s name. Heard her clearly enough to be interested in what that little sound means. Her voice doesn’t shake when she asks, and for that as well as to unravel that little tic, Orion answers: ❝ Took me right off the street. ❞ He coughs, throat burning fiercely. ❝ Even if I saw them, we haven’t always been enemies. Not exactly. ❞ Ask me, he thinks, though he doesn’t vocalize it. I’ve given you just enough to ask me more. Even in this room, there’s still ways to play, in the end. Orion just... temporarily forgot that. He should send her an edible arrangement after this, considering what she’s done for his mood.
His thoughts turn serious as she asks. ❝ That’s what I do. I poke people. ❞ He wishes it was more of a joke, but it’s not. Orion’s best work is as being a pest. It’s difficult to speak, but these words matter more than anything else, and he pauses to collect himself before saying them. Whatever she thinks, this message is essential. ❝ Shocking even myself, I value her more than I care about that. I made her a promise. Marcelo broke it for me. ❞
He struggles to reorient his mind around her question. In and out of delirium, he can feel it overtaking him, which must be why he laughs to hear Valentina’s name. ❝ The little rat ? ❞ he asks, though it’s a rhetorical question. ❝ That she couldn’t be stealthy for shit. ❞ He breaks the words on a cough, licks his lips against the rust-metal-salt taste of blood in his mouth. ❝ Not a lot. Gabriele ? ❞ He goes to shrug and then stops, fully freezing as excruciating pain radiates from his shoulder. ❝ Fuck. I. Describe him. ❞ This is said through gritted teeth. He wants to do everything he can for her, if it will convince her to send a message to Rafaella. Anything.












