I straightened. My spine found the wall behind me, and I let it hold me there — not leaning, not retreating, just occupying the space I had chosen. My voice came out steady and cold, the way Cristiano had taught me to speak when surrounded: give them nothing.
"I didn't push her."
Ginevra clutched her stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath — theatrical, precise, timed to the half-second — and even through her supposed pain she managed to tilt her face upward and throw Nico a teary, pitiful look. Her fingertips drifted to the hollow of her throat, pressing there with trembling delicacy, and I recognized the gesture for what it was. The soft feminine motion that made people lower their guard. The reset button she pressed right before she slid the knife in.
"Nico… my stomach hurts…"