Chapter 17
A year after Silvio’s conviction, I returned to my old apartment.
I had avoided it.
Too many bills.
Too many nights eating crackers for dinner.
Too many mornings pretending survival was independence.
The lock had been changed after the break-in.
Dante offered to come with me.
I said yes.
Then I said, “But don’t take over.”
He nodded.
Inside, the place smelled stale.
My old uniform hung on the bathroom door.
A stack of unpaid notices sat on the counter.
My life before Bellagio had not vanished.
It waited like a question.
I walked to the bedroom closet.
On the top shelf was a blue box.
Not the one from Sofia’s files.
Mine.
Inside were birthday cards from Elaine.
Old school pictures.
A cheap necklace.
And one newspaper clipping.
A car accident from two years ago.
Sofia’s accident.
I had clipped it without knowing why.
A dead woman’s face had looked too much like mine.
I had told myself it was strange.
Then I tucked it away.
My body had known before my mind was ready.
Dante stood in the doorway.
“You kept it.”
“I thought I was being morbid.”
“You were being called.”
I almost smiled.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“I am Italian.”
“That is not an excuse.”
“It is sometimes.”
I laughed.
In that small room, surrounded by the poor, lonely evidence of my old life, laughter felt impossible.
But it came.
I packed slowly.
Not everything.
I left behind what belonged to survival alone.
I took what belonged to me.
The necklace.
The cards.
The clipping.
The blue box.
Before leaving, I placed my key on the counter.
Dante asked, “Are you ready?”
I looked around one last time.
“I thought this apartment was proof I had no one.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s proof I made it anyway.”
May you like
He smiled softly.
“Yes,” he said. “You did.”
