I slammed the ledgers, thick as a missal, straight into his face.
"I'm done keeping your house!"
I turned and walked out, letting the door crack shut behind me like a pistol report.
Salvatore caught my wrist, his voice a low, impatient growl. "Adriana, if you're going to make a scene, at least have the sense to pick your time and place."
I tore my arm free and broke into a run.
At the iron gate, the man watching the drive lifted his eyes to me and said nothing. Only then did I realize tears were streaming down my face.
But the suffocating weight in my chest had finally lifted.
I went back to that hollow thing they called a "home" and started packing.
My suitcase had already been kicked to pieces.
I dug out a mildewed old bag and stuffed in three summer outfits and one winter coat.
That was everything I owned.
After I left, I made one more stop. His apartment. The place I'd never once been permitted to set foot in.
The plain two-room flat had long since been turned into a marriage house.
A massive wedding portrait dominated the wall. On the nightstand, photo albums showed a happy family of three. The sheets on the bed still bore damp, sticky stains.
Every detail screamed the truth: I was the other woman. The pitiful, clueless keeper of his mother's house.
A large album nearby chronicled the whole of them together. Courtship photos, honeymoon shots, even the christening of their child.
Handwritten notes ran beneath each page:
January: Finally spoke to my senior girl. She said yes. Yeah!
February: First evening out with my baby. Scouted six trattorias beforehand just to find the right one. Watching her eat with such joy made it all worth it.
June: Sealed the union the moment we were free of school. Today I'm the happiest man alive.
So while I had loved him most desperately, he had already given his word to another before the Family.
I opened the drawer and found it. The union document, bound in red, witnessed and sanctioned.
Cold dread shot from the crown of my skull down through my spine. My fingers trembled uncontrollably. I could barely breathe.
With shaking hands, I photographed the document, then the happy family portrait.
Then I slid off the marble bracelet I had never once removed and hurled it to the floor.
He had given it to me the day we finished school, saying he couldn't afford better yet, promising he'd buy me something worthy of me one day.
I stared at the photo of Bianca's hand, a great diamond weighing down her finger.
It was never about the cash. I simply wasn't worth it to him.
I set everything back where it belonged, shouldered that worn-out bag, and said goodbye to my youth.
The door swung open. Salvatore was back.
His eyes swept over the shattered bracelet on the floor, then snapped to the rumpled sheets. His gaze turned venomous.
"Who said you could come in here?"
"Don't think I can't see what you're doing. You put my mother in that bed, and you still have the nerve to show your face? Get to the clinic and kneel before her. Beg her pardon."
I met his fury with icy calm. All I felt was a quiet, settling satisfaction.
"Signor Ferraro. I'm finished doing thankless work for you."
I seized the framed family portrait and smashed it into his face.
"Let your wife and your son do the kneeling."
Glass opened two red gashes across his cheek, and for a moment he looked like something that had clawed its way up out of hell.
"What did you say to me? Don't you forget. I fed you and housed you eight years. Without me, who in this world would have taken you in?"
"Don't trouble yourself over that. I may have no blood and no name behind me, but I won't be trodden on by scum like you. Since you called me your keeper, then you owe me. Eight years of silent service, and every payment I made on the debt of this house. Transfer it to my account. I kept a record of every last coin. Pay what's owed, or I'll bring it before a sit-down and let the Family hear it."
I turned, slung that battered bag over my shoulder, and let the door slam shut behind me.
