OSTARA’S POVThe smell of old wax and wet stone hung in the air. The candles that lined the marble floor had begun to burn low, their light trembling against the high, cracked ceiling. Every flicker carved Peter’s face in new, unsettling shapes. He stood there, still and expectant, as if the entire scene—the priest, the flowers, the trembling child—were just lines from a play he’d already rehearsed a hundred times.My voice came out steadier than I felt.“Peter,” I said. “We need to talk. Alone.”He turned his head slightly, like a man humoring a child. “What’s left to say?”“Five minutes.” I forced my tone to stay level. “That’s all I’m asking.”He studied me for a moment. I didn’t blink. Somewhere behind me, Donna let out a small whimper, muffled against the cloth gag around her mouth. That sound cut through me like a wire. Peter heard it too. His eyes softened—not with kindness, but with calculation.“Fine,” he said at last, signaling to Matteo with a tilt of his chin. “Bring her t
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