I move through my little jungle next, because plants don’t respond well to neglect and neither do I. The pothos on the shelf gets a careful drink, the snake plant barely any at all. My calathea looks dramatic as always, leaves curled like it’s dying out of spite, so I mist it and tell it to calm down. The basil by the window smells sharp and green when I brush past it, grounding me.
"See?" I tell Wasabi, like he’s my therapist and not a judgmental goblin. "Everything’s fine. Food. Water. Thrivingdomestic ecosystem. No masked intruders. Textbook safe night."
He flicks an ear and keeps eating.
Talking helps. It keeps my thoughts from circling the same dark drain. I narrate what I’m doing like it’s a cooking show nobody asked for, reminding myself out loud that I’ve been careful, that I didn’t leave breadcrumbs, that men like him don’t get to follow you forever just because they want to.
Only when my hands stop shaking do I pick Wasabi up again.
I carry him to bed and crawl under the covers, leaving the lights off because turning them on feels like admitting I’m afraid.
I repeat the truth to myself the way I’ve been repeating it for years: I left. I changed my name. I erased the trail behind me. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, and I never looked back. There is no way anyone from before could find me now.
No wayhecould.
The thought refuses to settle. Hunters don’t need directions if they’re good enough, and he was always very good at getting what he wanted.
And I'm the one who got away.
I pull Wasabi closer, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my heart to remember how to slow down.
4
MATTEO
Ottavio joins me across the street just as the door opens.
I’ve got a cigarette between my fingers, unlit. I don’t smoke. Never have. I don’t like the taste, don’t like the smell, don’t like what it does to people over time. I like the weight of it, though. The familiarity. It gives my hands something to do when they want to reach for worse habits.
Marco used to smoke.
Ottavio flicks his lighter open and shut without lighting anything, mirroring me without meaning to. He follows my gaze to the restaurant entrance.
“Our guys are in place,” he tells me quietly. “They’ll follow at a distance a couple subway cars after hers and escort her home.”
Escort.The polite version of follow.
I nod once.
Rose steps out onto the sidewalk, shoulders tight, bag pulled close to her body. She pauses near the subway to say goodbye to her friend, a quick smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Even from here, I can see the way she keeps checking the street, the way she positions herself so her back isn’t exposed.
Ottavio notices it too. “She’s been jumpy.”
“For three months,” I say.
She turns toward the subway entrance and starts down the steps without looking back. Too fast. Like she’s trying to outrun something that isn’t there.
Or something that is.
I watch until she disappears underground. Then I roll the cigarette between my fingers, feeling the paper crinkle softly. I used to watch Marco do this when he was thinking, back before thinking got him killed. Before I had to step into a role that was never meant to fit this tightly.
Ottavio shifts beside me. “You want me to move closer?”
“Not yet,” I blow out a breath. “If she notices, she’ll shut down.”
“And the other one?”
My jaw tightens. “He’s still out there.”
