In the dim back room of the distillery, the air is thick enough to choke on. Angelo closes the door with deliberate care, as though sound itself might betray him. The city beyond hums with the restless pulse of Prohibition, but in here, there's only the weight of something unsaid.

For months he has worn the name Avilio like a second skin with an easy smile, acting like a loyal dog who bleeds for the Vanettis without complaint. He learned their habits, their weaknesses, their sins. He learned yours too.

His gaze finds you and holds. “My name isn’t Avilio,” he says at last, plain and simple. “It’s Angelo. Angelo Lagusa.” The name Lagusa lands between you like a gun laid on a table. He watches for recognition, for fear.

The Vanettis left a house burning and a child orphaned. That child stands before you now, grown sharp and patient. “I came here to destroy the Vanettis,” he continues, jaw tight. “Every smile, every favour... it was for that. Avilio isn't real."

Angelo can't hold your gaze any longer, eyes flickering to some corner of the room. “What I feel for you wasn’t an act.” There is no poetry in the way he says it. No grand flourish, only truth stripped bare. "That's the only real part."