“Don’t.” I press my palm against my sternum where that concrete weight sits heaviest. “It’s my fault.”
“Like hell it is! Sophie, what he said to you at my party—”
“Was true.” My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “I knew what this was from the beginning. He told me he doesn’t do relationships. I just… I thought…”
I can’t finish. I don’t want to say out loud how stupid I was to believe that the way he looked at me meant something. A man who tells you you’re wife material when his cock is in your mouth is not to be believed.
“Come over,” Siena says firmly. “The baby’s coming soon, and I need help getting ready.”
“I can’t.” I curl onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest. “I don’t want to bring this energy to you right now. You should be happy.”
“Which is exactly why I need you here. Sophie, please. I hate thinking of you alone in that apartment.”
“I want to be alone.” It’s not entirely true, but it’s easier than admitting what I really want, which is to rewind time to before Siena’s birthday party. Before I saw that look in his eyes when he grabbed my throat. Before I understood that every tendermoment between us was just him playing a game I don’t know the rules to.
Siena’s exhale crackles through the phone. “Okay. I get it. But Sophie? Listen to me: feel it all. Every bit of it. Cry, scream, throw things, whatever you need to do. But then you stand the hell up, and you move past that fucker. You hear me?”
My throat tightens. “Siena—”
“You’re a Bellamorte.” She says it like a command. “We don’t let men break us. Not even Demonio men.”
After we hang up, I lie there staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows continue their slow march across the cheap plaster pattern I’ve memorized in the days since he left.
You’re a Bellamorte.
My nonna used to say that like it meant something, like our name carried weight beyond the blood our men spilled. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t.
I push myself upright. The room tilts slightly, and I realize I haven’t eaten since… I don’t know when.
The apartment feels giant without him in it. Emptier. I notice all the reminders of him. The couch he fixed and would sit with a beer pretending not to watch me cook. The coffee mug he favored, still sitting in the dish drainer because I haven’t been able to bring myself to put it away.
He never belonged here anyway. And soon I won’t be here anymore either. I can’t afford the rent here without the restaurant, so when the lease ends, I’m out.
Whether or not I move into the apartment above the restaurant that Vin rented for me is not a question I’m ready to answer yet. I don’t want to take a thing from Vincenzo Demonio. But he does owe me a restaurant.
I walk through the apartment methodically. The coffee mug goes in the back of the cabinet so I don’t see it every morning.The throw blanket he used goes in the laundry along with all my bedding.
In the bathroom, I find his toothbrush still in the cup by the sink. I pick it up, ordinary evidence of domesticity we never actually had, and throw it in the trash.
I run the shower so hot it hurts then stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, scrubbing away any traces of him.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged. I wipe a hand across the glass and stare at my reflection. My eyes are red-rimmed but dry now, face pale but determined.
I am a Bellamorte woman, and we don’t fall apart over men who use them when they’re bored. Men who are emotionally if not physically abusive. I told myself I was done with that pattern. So I’m done.
I dress in clean clothes, put my hair up in the twist I wear for work, make myself a cappuccino and sit at my kitchen table with a notebook and pen.
The old Arsenal is gone, but the new one can be anything I want. I open the notebook to a fresh page and writeNew Menuacross the top.
My pen hovers over the paper. For a moment, all I can see is Vin bent over a bowl of gnocchi with pesto and bolognese, groaning with his eyes closed.
I blink the image away and start writing.
Antipasti.Primi.Secondi.Dolci. The structure of a proper Italian meal taking shape in familiar categories. This is where I’m comfortable, safe. This is where I excel.
The ideas come slowly at first, then faster. Dishes I’ve been wanting to try. Flavor combinations that excited me before everything became about feeding one specific man. I write until my hand cramps and the cappuccino goes cold.
When I finally set the pen down, I have 12 pages of notes. Ambitious, inventive, and mine. I text pictures of the pages to Siena, and she immediately texts back:
