The apartment was eerily quiet.
I stood in the middle of the living room, listening to the silence. There was no traffic noise from the street below, no hum from the refrigerator. Just the sound of my own breathing.
I walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger.
My hair was a disaster-tangled, soaked, plastered to my scalp in some places and sticking out in others. My eyes were red and swollen, yet completely dry. As for my face... my face was a living record of exactly what I'd been through over the last few hours.
The cut on my cheek had stopped bleeding, leaving a dark red trail from my cheekbone down to the corner of my mouth. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, but it would definitely scar.
Good.
I wanted a scar. I wanted something permanent to remember the night I finally woke up.
I found the first-aid kit under the sink-a pristine white box that looked like it had never been opened. Everything inside was perfectly organized, the bandages still wrapped in their plastic film.
Did Dante even know where the first-aid kit was? I wondered. Probably not. He had people for that. He had me.
With trembling hands, I wrapped a bandage around my forearm. I wasn't a nurse, but over the years, I'd patched up enough of Dante's men to pick up the basics.
It was ironic, really. I'd spent so much time taking care of everyone else, yet I'd never learned how to take care of myself.
I was just securing the bandage with medical tape when my phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the quiet.
The sound was so sudden, so jarring in the empty apartment, that I nearly dropped the scissors.
I walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone.
Sophia.
Her name glared on my screen like an accusation.
She had unblocked me just to send a text.
I almost didn't open it.
Sophia: Sweetie, so sorry about your dress. But honestly, white isn't your color anyway. It's for brides. You looked like a stain standing next to Dante. Have fun hanging out with the dog. Or did it run away too?
A photo came next.
It was a selfie. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a Maybach-my husband's car.
Her hair was immaculate, her makeup flawless, and her smile dazzling. She looked like she had just won the lottery.
Dante was driving. His hand rested casually, yet possessively, high on her thigh.
I stared at that picture for a long time.
My eyes traced the lines of his face-his sharp jawline, his dark hair, the intense focus in his eyes even when he was just driving.
But it was the face of a stranger.
Because the Dante I knew wouldn't do this. The Dante I knew wouldn't have his hand on another woman's thigh while his wife was bleeding in an alley. The Dante I knew wouldn't let his mistress send me pictures of them having fun.
But that Dante didn't exist.
He never had.
He was a figment of my imagination. I had taken a broken, angry boy and molded him into something he was never meant to be. I had written a love story in my head, casting him as the hero, when in reality, he was just the villain.
I didn't cry.
I was done crying.
I set the phone down and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had finally stopped. The city sprawled out beneath me, glittering yet cold and unforgiving. Somewhere out there, people were sleeping peacefully. Somewhere, couples were curled up together, dreaming of forever.
It was 2:00 a.m.
I threw on a plain black hoodie and slipped out of the penthouse without a backward glance.
The elevator ride felt endless. The lobby was deserted. The doorman barely glanced up as I walked past.
Outside, the air smelled of wet concrete and infinite possibilities.
When I reached the gates of the Vitiello estate, the guards recognized me.
"Bit late for a visit," one of them noted, his tone flat and disinterested.
"I forgot something," I said. "I'll be quick."
He waved me through without another look.
I walked the familiar paths, but with foreign eyes.
I crossed the damp grass toward the rear gardens, walking past the rose bushes I'd pruned countless times, past the fountain where I used to sit and read, past the bench where Dante had kissed me for the first time.
The old peach tree stood at the edge of the property, its branches gnarled yet steadfast.
Seven years ago, on Dante's eighteenth birthday, we had buried a time capsule among its roots.
I still remembered that day vividly. The party had been extravagant-hundreds of guests, a live band, and catering from the city. But Dante had quietly slipped away from the crowd. He found me hiding out in the gardens and asked me to help him bury something.
"I want to remember who I am," he had said.
He wasn't the Godfather then. And I was already in love with him.
I had loved him so much it ached.
I dropped to my knees in the mud.
The rain had soaked the earth, making it soft, but that didn't make digging any easier. I didn't bother looking for a shovel; I dug with my bare hands. The dirt was freezing, heavy, and gritty. It wedged under my fingernails and stuck to the cuts on my palms.
My fingers scraped against rocks-small pebbles at first, then larger stones. I pried them out and tossed them aside. The fresh bandages on my arm were soaked through, black mud mixing with bright blood. The cut on my cheek throbbed with every heartbeat.
I didn't care.
I was desperately searching for answers. I was searching for proof that I hadn't just imagined it all. I was searching for the girl I used to be-the girl who believed in wishes, promises, and happily-ever-afters.
My fingers hit metal.
The sound was dull and hollow.
I scraped away more dirt until I saw it-the rusty tin box we had buried. Most of the paint had peeled away, exposing the corroded metal underneath.
I yanked it out of the ground and set it on my lap.
I pried open the lid.
Inside were two folded pieces of paper and a tarnished silver locket.
The paper was yellowed with age, its edges soft from the dampness. They were still folded exactly as we had left them-neat little squares carrying our deepest desires.
I unfolded my paper first.
My own handwriting stared back at me-loopy and childish, written by someone who still believed in fairy tales.
I will serve and love Dante Vitiello until the end of my days. I will be his light.
I stared at those words.
I had written them in blood. Literally. I had pricked my finger on a rose thorn and used the blood as ink. It felt so romantic, so poetic at the time. A blood oath. A promise written with the only thing I truly owned.
What a stupid, naive girl I had been.
What a waste of blood.
I traced the words with my fingertips, feeling the faint indentations on the paper, the physical marks of everything I had given up. Seven years. Seven years of devotion. Seven years of loving a man who had never loved me back.
And for what?
So I could sit in a mud puddle at 3:00 a.m. and dig up the proof of my own stupidity?
I set my note aside and unfolded Dante's.
His handwriting was neater, sharper than mine. He had pressed down hard on the paper, leaving grooves that were still clearly visible all these years later.
I wish to see again. I wish for my family to be strong. I wish for Sophia to be safe.
Sophia.
Even back then. Even when she ignored him, even when she dated other boys, even when I sat beside him every single day, listening to his dreams, reading to him, loving him-he had still used his wish to pray for her safety.
Not mine.
Never me.
I was never part of his plan. I wasn't even a footnote. I was just the shovel he used to bury me.
