(Luca)
I didn’t sit.
Standing kept my spine straight and my words deliberate. Sitting invited comfort, and comfort had no place here.
Aria waited on the couch, hands folded in her lap, the photograph of her brother resting face-down on the table between us. She hadn’t looked at it again. That restraint told me everything I needed to know about how carefully she was bracing herself.
“You asked for enough to understand,” I said. “Not everything.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I don’t want details. I want context.”
Context was a mercy.
I chose my words the way men chose weapons—by knowing what they could destroy.
“Your brother wasn’t targeted because of who he was to you,” I began. “He was targeted because of the role he stepped into.”
Her chin lifted slightly. Not defensively. Attentively.
