I swallowed the fire rising in my throat. "I didn't do it." My voice came out steady, though the effort nearly split me open. "If you don't believe me, investigate it yourselves. Pull the records. Trace the posts. You have the resources."
Neither of them heard me. They had already turned away, flanking Rosalia like bodyguards escorting a wounded principessa.
"Don't worry, Rosalia. I will have my people scrub every post by morning. No one will say another word."
"You look pale. Let me take you somewhere warm. There is a pasticceria on Via Luca that stays open late. The chocolate torta there will settle your nerves."
They guided her forward, one on each side, their hands gentle on her arms. Not once did either of them look back.
I stood alone beneath the fading smoke of the fireworks. The air smelled of sulfur and spent gunpowder. Ash drifted down around me like grey snow, settling on my shoulders, on the dark earth, on the velvet box Giancarlo had left sitting on the hood of the car, forgotten.
I watched the last ember die in the sky and felt nothing.
In the face of what I had already survived, in the face of death itself, this small betrayal was barely a whisper.