Chapter 22 Two years
Two years since the plane touched down at JFK, since I stepped into a Brooklyn apartment that smelled like fresh paint and possibility instead of gun oil and regret. Two years since I left Italy behind like shedding old skin—bruises faded, scars turned silver, memories locked in a box I only open when the nights get too quiet.
Life is perfect. Life is good.
I tell myself that every morning while the coffee brews in my sleek white kitchen, sunlight slicing through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River. The skyline glitters like it’s trying to impress me. Most days, it works.
I work at Vanguard Capital now—senior analyst in mergers and acquisitions. Corner office on the 42nd floor of a glass tower in Midtown. The kind of place where people wear quiet money and speak in clipped, confident sentences. My team is sharp, ambitious, mostly kind. They call me “Lia” here—short for Liliana, but cleaner, Americanized, safe. No one asks about the faint scar on my wrist under the gold bracelet I never take off. No one needs to know.
This morning was the usual rhythm.
I walked into the bullpen at 7:45, heels clicking on polished marble. Heads turned—subtle nods, quick smiles.
“Morning, Lia,” Sarah from research called, holding up her latte like a salute. “You ready to crush the Due Diligence deck for the Meridian deal?”
“Born ready,” I said, flashing the practiced smile. “Send me the updated comps when you have them.”
She grinned. “Already in your inbox. You’re a machine.”
I laughed—light, easy—and kept walking.
Inside my head, quieter thoughts turned.
Machine. That’s what they see. Competent. Unflappable. The woman who catches discrepancies in financials no one else notices, who presents to the board without a single filler word. They don’t see the nights I still wake up gasping, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. They don’t see the burner phone in my nightstand drawer that hasn’t rung in twelve months.
Dante started ghosting after a year.
It wasn’t dramatic. No fight. No final call. Just… silence that grew.
At first it was daily—texts at odd hours, voice notes when he couldn’t sleep, “Miss you, Lil. Stay safe.” Then weekly. Then sporadic. Then nothing.
The last message came on a rainy Thursday in October last year:
Got tied up with some business. Giovanni’s people are scattered but not gone. I’ll call when it’s clear. Love you. Always.
No call followed.
I waited three months. Then six. Then I stopped checking the phone every hour. Stopped jumping when it buzzed with work notifications. Stopped pretending the silence was temporary.
He’s alive—I know that much. Marco still sends encrypted updates twice a year: “Boss is fine. Things are settling.” No details. No invitation to come back. Just confirmation that the war isn’t over, and I’m still safer here.
I don’t hate him for it.
I understand.
This life—the one he built after my father died—was never going to let him walk away clean. Not while Rossi remnants are still breathing. Not while debts are unpaid. He’s protecting me the only way he knows how: by staying far enough that the shadows can’t reach across the Atlantic.
But understanding doesn’t stop the ache. It just makes it duller. Familiar. Like an old bruise you forget until you press on it.
I pushed through the day.
Meetings. Spreadsheets. A client lunch at Le Bernardin where I smiled and nodded while the CEO droned about synergies. Back to the office. Emails. A quick stand-up with the team.
“Great work on the valuation model, Lia,” Daniel said as we wrapped. He’s my boss—managing director, early forties, sharp suits, sharper mind. Divorced. Kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He’s asked me out three times in the last six months. I said no the first two. Polite. Professional.
Today he caught me at the elevator bank.
“Lia.” He smiled—easy, warm. “You free tonight? There’s a new jazz spot in the Village. Low-key. Good gin. No work talk, I promise.”
I looked at him. Really looked.
He wasn’t Dante. No street scars. No quiet menace. No history soaked in blood. Just a man who liked art galleries and ran marathons and looked at me like I was someone worth knowing.
The silence from across the ocean echoed in my chest.
Two years of perfect. Of good. Of safe.
Maybe it was time to stop waiting for a call that might never come.
I exhaled.
“Okay,” I said. “Tonight. Eight?”
His face lit up—surprised, pleased.
“Eight. I’ll text you the address.”
I nodded. Stepped into the elevator.
The doors closed.
Inner thoughts rushed in.
You’re doing this.
You’re allowed to do this.
Dante made his choice when he stopped calling. When he decided the war was more important than bridging the distance. You don’t owe him celibacy. You don’t owe him waiting.
You owe yourself a life.
A real one.
Not a paused one.
The elevator dinged at the lobby.
I stepped out into the evening crush—people hurrying home, taxis honking, the city alive and indifferent.
I walked to the subway. Let the crowd carry me.
Back in Brooklyn, I showered. Long. Hot. Washed away the day, the faint phantom smell of gunpowder that sometimes still clings to my skin when I think too hard.
I chose a black dress—not the one from the warehouse, never that one again. This one was simple. Sleeveless. Knee-length. Heels I could walk in.
Lipstick. Red. Bold.
I looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back had steady eyes. A faint scar on her wrist. A life she’d built brick by brick.
She looked ready.
I grabbed my coat. Phone in hand.
No new messages from unknown numbers. No encrypted pings.
Just a text from Daniel: Can’t wait. See you soon.
I smiled—small, real.
Locked the door behind me.
Stepped into the night.
The jazz club was warm, dim, velvet booths and low brass notes curling through the air. Daniel was already there—standing when he saw me, pulling out my chair like it mattered.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.” I meant it.
We ordered drinks. Talked about everything except work—books, travel, the way the city changes every season. He laughed easily. Listened when I spoke. Didn’t push.
Halfway through the set, during a slow saxophone solo, he reached across the table. Brushed his fingers over mine.
“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.
I looked down at our hands. Then up at him.
“Yes,” I said.
And for the first time in two years, the word didn’t feel like a betrayal.
It felt like moving forward.
Dante’s ghost lingered—always would, probably. The love hadn’t died; it had just gone quiet. Like him.
But tonight, in this smoky room with good music and a kind man across from me, I let myself breathe.
Life is perfect.
Life is good.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to let it be mine again.