I lean against the wall, letting the absurdity wash over me.
The laughter dies in my throat as I realize something else.
I'm not sure I wanted the plan to work.
The thought is uncomfortable. Unwelcome. But it sits there, heavy and true.
When I turned back to look at where Salvatore had disappeared into the darkness, when I whispered goodnight to the empty hallway... some part of me was relieved the door had opened onto nothing but cold night air and uncertainty.
Some part of me wanted to stay.
"You're going crazy," I mutter to myself.
But it’s not that simple, nothing about this is simple.
* * *
I spend the next morning in the garden, pretending to write but actually staring at the same page for an hour. My mind keeps drifting to the kiss. To his offer. To the way his voice cracked on the word choose.
Give me six months. If you still want to leave, I'll let you go.
No man who rules through violence makes offers like that. No monster gives their prey a key to the cage.
Unless he's not entirely a monster.
Unless there's something else underneath all that darkness.
I think about the photo albums in the library. The little boy making bunny ears. The way his mother smiled in every picture.The family they used to be before whatever happened to make them into this.
Before I can stop myself, I'm out of bed and heading for the library.
* * *
The Vitale library has become my sanctuary.
Three stories of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rare editions locked behind glass. Manuscripts so old I'm afraid to breathe near them. It's a librarian's dream, and for a few hours each day, I can pretend I'm still the woman I was before all of this.
Today, I climb to the second floor, drawn back to the alcove where I found the photo albums yesterday. I want to see more. Want to understand the family I've signed my life over to.
I'm reaching for another leather-bound volume when I hear it.
Footsteps. Heavy. Uneven.
Someone is here.
I freeze, hand still extended, heart suddenly pounding. The footsteps stop somewhere on the first floor. Then I hear something else.
Breathing. Ragged. Like someone trying to control pain.
I should stay hidden. Should wait until whoever it is leaves.
Instead, I find myself moving toward the spiral staircase, peering over the wrought-iron railing.
And there he is.
Salvatore is slumped in one of the worn velvet chairs by the window, his arm thrown across his face. Even from here, I can see the tension in his body. The way his shoulders are locked.The way his hand grips the armrest like he's trying to anchor himself.
And his leg.
