Sarah Miller POV
My parents' house in Brooklyn didn't just smell like garlic and roasted peppers; it reeked of them, a thick, oily scent that clung to the curtains.
It smelled like safety.
My father was a soldier-a low-level associate who took bets, kept his head down, and never asked questions.
But he looked absolutely terrified when I walked through the door with my suitcase.
"Sarah," he whispered, the color draining from his face. "What did you do?"
"I left him, Papa."
He gripped the back of a kitchen chair, his knuckles turning white.
"You can't leave a Capo, baby. It isn't done."
"It is done," my mother said.
Her voice was steel, cutting through the fear in the room. She walked out of the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on a floral apron.
She looked at me, then at the suitcase.
She didn't ask questions.
She just pulled me into a hug so tight it felt like she was trying to physically hold my shattered pieces together.
"We have the money," she whispered fiercely in my ear. "The run money. It's taped inside the vent in the pantry."
I slept in my childhood bed.
For three days, I didn't leave the house.
I watched the world burn through my phone screen.
Michael had reposted an old photo of us from two years ago.
Caption: My rock.
He was doing damage control.
The rumors were starting.
People had seen me leave the restaurant in tears.
People had seen him on the swings.
My thumb hovered over the screen. I logged into my social media.
I hadn't posted in months.
I typed two words.
Single. Done.
I hit post.
Then I turned off the phone and threw it onto the duvet.
The next day, I went to the closing for the co-op.
It was a small, dusty office above a bakery that smelled of yeast and sugar.
Mrs. Peterson, the seller, was a sweet old lady with blue hair and a trembling hand.
She was signing the papers when her cell phone rang.
She looked confused, frowning at the screen.
"It's a private number," she said. "They say it's urgent for Sarah Miller."
My blood ran cold.
He had found me.
Of course he had.
He was Michael Vance. He knew everything.
I took the phone, my fingers numb.
"Hello?"
"You are embarrassing me." Michael's voice didn't rise; it vibrated with a low, dangerous hum.
It wasn't a question. It was a threat.
"Hello, Michael."
"Take the post down," he said. "Now. And get back to the penthouse. I have a dinner with the Commission tonight. I need you there."
"I'm not coming."
"Sarah." His voice dropped an octave, dark and velvety. "Do not play games with me. I bought you. Remember?"
"You paid a debt," I said, my voice shaking but loud. "Seven years ago. The statute of limitations on slavery is up."
"There is no statute of limitations on us."
"There is no us," I said. "Go take Jessica. She likes the spotlight."
"Jessica is... unavailable," he said.
"Oh? Trouble in paradise?"
"She is in Switzerland," he said curtly. "For her heart. I sent her there."
"You sent your mistress on a vacation while your fiancée was moving out?"
"It is a medical trip!" he shouted.
In the silence that followed, I heard it.
The distinct chime of an airport announcement in the background.
He was there.
He was seeing her off.
He was at the airport with her, holding her hand, while screaming at me to come home.
"Goodbye, Michael," I said.
"If you hang up, Sarah, I will-"
I handed the phone back to Mrs. Peterson.
"Please block that number," I said.
She looked at my shaking hands.
"Ex-boyfriend?" she asked.
"Something like that."
I signed the deed.
The pen tore through the paper, I pressed so hard.
I was a homeowner.
I was Sarah Miller.
And I was free.
