Celina Vitale's slender silhouette trailed behind him like a shadow, both of them carrying bags from the market—household essentials, the mundane trappings of domesticity. They looked, for all the world, like a young couple settling into a new nest.
Aunt Mina descended the stairs to greet me just as this tableau unfolded before us. She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off before she could draw breath.
"The package from Mother arrived. Make sure you check the dates on everything—she'd be furious if anything spoiled."
I didn't spare Luca Haskins so much as a glance, yet this time, unexpectedly, he volunteered an explanation.
"Elena, don't misunderstand. Celina's previous place wasn't secure—too exposed. I helped her find somewhere safer. I had no idea your aunt lived in this building." His eyes swept over the boxes the driver was unloading. "Why so many supplies?"
I gestured for the driver to bring the rest while answering with deliberate indifference. "You don't need to explain your business arrangements to me. These are from my mother. We don't know when we'll be back this way, so she stocked up."
Seeing that I hadn't taken offense, Luca's shoulders visibly relaxed.
"That's fine then. The north end isn't far. Whenever you want to come by, just let me know."
He still didn't know I was moving back permanently. I had no intention of enlightening him.
Aunt Mina started to say something, but watching how attentively Luca hovered over Celina, she thought better of it and held her tongue.
Celina's expression grew guarded, a flicker of calculation behind her doe eyes.
The four of us stood there in that awkward silence—the kind that settles over a room when too many secrets press against too few words—until Celina finally broke it with a theatrical sigh of exhaustion.
Luca immediately instructed the driver to pause unloading, explaining that they didn't have much and could take the elevator first. Seeing him laden with bags of household goods—linens, cleaning supplies, the small intimacies of shared space—I stepped aside to let them pass.
Something like surprise flickered across Luca's face before he hurried into the elevator, Celina tucked close beside him.
As the doors slid shut, I caught my own reflection in the polished steel—and superimposed over it, a ghost of who I used to be. When Aunt Mina had first moved here years ago, Luca had been just as attentive. Running errands. Carrying my things. Smiling as he welcomed me into his home, calling me his "future lady of the house."
How easily history repeats itself with a different face.
Watching the elevator numbers climb, Aunt Mina let out a soft, regretful sigh.
"Are you certain you don't want me to speak with him? You've known each other so long. If this ends over a misunderstanding, it would be such a waste."
I shook my head slowly. "There's nothing to clarify. Luca never lets things fester overnight—that's his rule. If he hasn't explained himself by now, then there's nothing left to explain."
In truth, Luca and Celina hadn't brought much to move. One trip should have sufficed. But after I finished delivering everything to Aunt Mina's apartment and said my goodbyes, there was still no sign of him downstairs.
Out of courtesy to our long acquaintance—omertà of a different kind, the silence of old ties—I pulled out my phone and sent him a message asking when he'd be back.
His reply came almost instantly. A voice message.
I pressed play, and Celina's honeyed voice poured through the speaker.
"Elena, Luca's helping me with the wiring. This place hasn't been lived in for a while, so there's quite a bit to sort out. You should head home—don't let us hold you up!"
I was about to close the app and call for a car when another message arrived.
"Oh, and Elena? Don't overthink things. Luca's just being kind. He feels sorry for me, being alone in such a big city."
Alone. In a city where she'd positioned herself precisely where she wanted to be.
The memory of my own parents—who had left years ago, who had finally called me home—rose unbidden. I typed a brief acknowledgment and closed the chat.
In the back of the hired car, I stared out the window at the passing streets, my thoughts scattered like ash, when Luca's call came through.
"Elena, why were you so cold to Celina?" His voice carried that particular edge—the one he used when he wanted to sound reasonable while making clear he was anything but. "She's one of my people. I was just helping her find a place. The organization hasn't arranged housing yet—is it so wrong for me to step in?"
A pause, then his tone sharpened further.
"When did you become like this? At the birthday gathering, you were sulking the whole time, saying you felt unwell and wanted to leave. I didn't say a word about it, and now you're picking fights?"
Through the phone, I could hear Celina's soft, wounded sniffling—a performance pitched perfectly for her audience of one.
The woman weeping in Luca's presence bore no resemblance to the one who had just sent me those messages, all sugar-coated thorns.
I drew a slow breath, finally understanding her game with perfect clarity. But exhaustion had hollowed me out, leaving no room for defense or explanation.
"You're right," I said quietly. "It's my fault. I was only asking. Don't worry—I'm already home. I didn't wait for you."
The line went dead in my hand, and I watched the city lights blur past the window like dying stars.
