47

MILLO “Hard to forget,” he murmurs from the other side, his words slicing through the stillness. “You looked like a damn street urchin,” he says, rolling to lie on his back. A bitter laugh escapes me as I recall the worn soles of my shoes flapping against the linoleum, the snickers of those privileged kids, and the sting of humiliation that had burned hotter than the black eye my father gifted me that morning. “Thought you’d join ’em,” I admit, the memory clear as if it were yesterday. “But you didn’t.” “Never did have a stomach for cowards,” Leone replies. The moment in the bathroom flashes before my eyes—the metallic taste of fear in my mouth as hands shoved me towards the toilet, the sudden crack of Leone’s fist against one bully’s face. The shock on their faces mirrored my own disbelief. Leone Pressutti, standing up for me? It was surreal. I was nobody. He was somebody. “Should’ve known then you were different,” I say, my voice trailing off. Silence hangs between us, thick with the