I’d made it. I was outside.
I was terrified.
I hadn’t been on my own in months and now, I was standing in the dark, with the freedom to go wherever I wanted. The night air felt too big, too strong, pressing against my skin like ice water. I clutched the straps of the backpack until my knuckles ached, staring at the empty alley stretching out in both directions.
Freedom was supposed to feel like flying. Instead it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a black sea.
I started jogging, my feet pounding against the cracked pavement, until the alley spat me out onto a wider, dimly lit street. I raised my hand, waving down the first cab that slowed, breath coming in ragged gasps. “South Bronx,” I said, my voice rough, almost foreign even to me. The driver nodded, and I climbed in, letting the door shut behind me like a seal on the past.
As the cab pulled away, I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the brownstone shrink into the distance. I was gone. Finally, I was gone.
After living in one of NYC’s nicest neighborhoods, my old home felt even shittier. The lobby door had finally fallen off its hinges, my neighbor still had their windows patched with carboard, and rust and mold still lined the outside of the building. I walked inside, and the mold and piss smell that I had once grown immune to nauseated me.
Covering my nose, I glanced at the broken elevator before I ascended the stairs. Each step groaned under my weight, the rusted metal and cracked concrete threatening to give way with every footfall. The narrow stairwell smelled of mildew and stale smoke, pressing in on me like the walls themselves wanted to keep me trapped.
When I reached the floor I used to live on, a wave of nostalgia and revulsion hit me at once. The peeling wallpaper, the faint stains on the carpet, the faint scent of rot mixed with whatever old food had been left behind—it all looked smaller, sadder than I remembered. The door to my old apartment hung crooked on its hinges. Of course my father hadn’t gotten it replaced. It wasn’t like there was anything in there worth stealing.
I lingered only a moment, my fingers brushing against the chipped frame, before pushing the door open.
I was greeted by a familiar sight. My father was drunk, slouched in his chair like he had been for years, a half-empty bottle dangling from one hand. The smell of stale alcohol hit me first, sharp and suffocating, followed by the muted glow of the TV he never seemed to notice. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, tracing nothing in particular, and a bitter mix of frustration and pity coiled in my stomach.
I stood there seething for at least thirty seconds before he noticed my presence.
“Tessa,” he mumbled, voice thick and slurred, “Good to see ya.”
“Good… to… see me?” I repeated, voice tight, incredulous. “You send me as payment to the mafia and that’s all you have to say?”
“I knew you’d be fine,” he continued, almost dropping the bottle in his hands. “See? He just had his fun with you and let you go.”
My stomach dropped, bile rising at the edges of my throat. My hands trembled, not from fear this time, but from pure, searing rage. “What?” I hissed, stepping closer, my voice sharp enough to make him flinch. “You think this is funny? That I’m some toy he played with and tossed aside?”
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, smothering whatever fragile remnants of relief I had hoped to cling to. I felt the walls closing in around me, each breath more labored than the last, as the bitter truth seeped into my veins.
I couldn’t stay. Not another second. Not here, not under the same roof as someone who could treat my life like a trivial game.
I turned back to him, the words tearing their way out of me before I could stop them. “You’re not a father. You’re a parasite. You sold me off like I was nothing, and now you sit here drunk, acting like it’s all fine. I hope one day you choke on that bottle, and there will be no one here to save you.”
He stared at me, slack-jawed, the bottle trembling in his hand. For the first time in my life, he looked small. Smaller than the room, smaller than the chair he was slumped in.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the hallway. My heart raced, fueled by a cocktail of fury and despair. I stumbled back down the stairs, the familiar creaking steps mocking my every move.
By the time I reached the lobby, my lungs burned and my chest heaved. There was nothing but the night to greet me, and it felt heavy—thick with silence, with the kind of emptiness that presses down on your chest and makes each breath feel like a fight. The streetlights flickered weakly, casting long, uncertain shadows across the cracked pavement.
Now I had nowhere to go.
Both my father and Felix had shown me, in their own ways, exactly how little I mattered. One had gambled me away, the other had caged me. Together they’d hollowed me out, leaving only a backpack and a strange ache I didn’t recognize.
The city sprawled ahead, vast and indifferent, its lights glittering like distant stars I’d never reach. Hugging my arms around myself, I stepped into the dark, not knowing where I was headed—only that anywhere had to be better than where I’d been.
Chapter 32
Felix
Taking care of Cosimo had taken longer than I expected. When I finally got home, the apartment was quiet. Tessa wasn’t waiting at the door, and the faint hum of the hallway lights felt colder than usual.
I walked to the bedroom, ready to see her sleeping form in our bed. I was ready to wrap my arms around her, feel the steady warmth of her body and drift off into a peaceful sleep.
The sheets were empty. Cold emptiness pressed against my chest as my pulse spiked. I called her name, my voice cracking, but only the hollow walls answered. Something was wrong.
