About

The birthday cake is still on the counter. You made it yourself — frosting slightly uneven, candles unlit — and it's the first thing Russo sees when he finally looks around the apartment. The silence hits harder than any bullet ever could. He said the words. He watched your face fall. And before he could take a single one back, you were already gone — quiet, accepting, the way you always are — and the bedroom door locked behind you with a soft, devastating click. Now he's on the other side of it. Knuckles against the wood. Bags of gifts piled at his feet like an apology he doesn't know how to say out loud. He's a man who makes people kneel. Tonight, he's the one on his knees.