It's Lawrence.
Morning check. You up?
I swallow down the tiny rush of disappointment that it isn’t someone else.
Awake. All good.
My phone buzzes immediately. He’s calling.
“Pennino.”
“Morning,” Lawrence says. His voice is the same steady gravel as last night. “Did you add us to your ‘Allow’ list?”
“Yes,” I say, my tone flat. “I did it last night.”
“Good. Today,” he continues, “we’re adding an overnight beacon at Conti’s residence. Pretrial will push me for the install confirmation. Doesn’t affect your schedule, just a heads-up.”
“Copy.”
“Two more items,” he says. “We’ve got a press car sniffing around your block again. White SUV, amateur tint. Use the garage this morning, vary by fifteen. Second, we’re rotating an extra body in your lobby during commute windows. Don’t engage. Just wave and keep moving.”
“Got it.”
There’s a beat. I can hear him weighing whether to ask something he has a right to ask. “Anything unusual overnight? Calls, visitors, noise?”
I swallow, and my eyes slide to the note on my nightstand, the tattered ruins of my nightgown.
My stomach misbehaves.
“No,” I say and congratulate myself when my voice doesn’t crack. “All quiet after you guys left.”
“Good. I’m glad,” he says. “Text before you leave.”
“I will.”
“And eat something,” he says, his tone softening.
I huff out a laugh. He’s almost become a doting father at this point. “I will.”
“Good,” he says and hangs up.
I stare at the phone like it might confess the truth. It doesn’t.
The apartment is the same, except it isn’t. I put the note back on the nightstand and then pick it up again, caught in the stupid loop of where to put a thing that shouldn’t exist.
Trash would be smart. Shredder would be smarter. My fingers don’t cooperate. I fold it once, then again, and slide it into the back of my mother’s recipe tin on the dresser, behind a card that says “Torta di mele” in looping script. I tell myself it’s because no one will look there.
I walk to the bathroom, not even bothering with a robe. I catch myself in the mirror. Hair wrecked, lips swollen. There’s a small mark on my breast, and I remember Luca’s teeth nipping my delicate flesh right there, marking me.
I look like a woman who did something she can never say out loud and is already paying for. Heat crawls up my neck at the image and then, traitor that I am, I smile. It’s small, but it’s there.
God, Elena.
Shower. Water hot enough to bite. The sting on my skin, my sore muscles, feels like heaven.
I tilt my head into the water and let it slide down my well-used body.
By the time I’m towel-drying my hair, the sore has changed from ache to awareness. Every movement is a reminder.
