They kept me in the private clinic the Family used until noon the next day, tucked in a back room where no soldier would think to look and no name went into any book. In all those hours of white sheets and quiet machines, Lorenzo sent me only one message.
[The roof at Gia's is leaking. I'm bringing her home to stay.]
I read it twice, and I knew the moment my eyes touched the words that Lorenzo had not written them. The phrasing was too eager, too pleased with itself. This was Gia's hand moving on Lorenzo's phone, her thumbs sending word out under his name as if the name itself were already hers to spend.
When I finally came back to the house Lorenzo had given me but never quite let me own, I keyed the door code and it refused me. My fingers hovered to try again, the old sequence I had chosen years ago when I still believed this door belonged to the two of us. Before I could press it, the door swung open from the inside.
Gia leaned out from behind it, and she was wearing my apron. "Adriana, you're finally back!" she said, bright as glass. "The old code was too complicated. I couldn't keep it in my head, so Lorenzo changed it to my birthday. Sit down, Adriana, I'll fetch you some water."
She drew me across my own threshold and into the house with the ease of a woman welcoming a guest into a home she considered hers. The smell of cooking drifted through the rooms, warm and domestic, an obscene sort of comfort. She hurried toward the kitchen door, glowing with it, and called into the room beyond. "Lorenzo, Adriana's back."
Lorenzo came out wearing the matching apron.
I had bought that pair years ago, one for each of us, in the early foolishness of a marriage no one was permitted to know about. He had called it childish and never once put it on. Now here it was, knotted at his waist as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen with Gia, and the sight of it turned something cold in my chest. On him, worn for her, it looked ugly to me.
He glanced at me, unhurried, and told Gia in a low voice to go back to her room. She nodded like an obedient child, scooped up a bag of peanuts from the counter, and carried them off into my bedroom without a backward look.
The living room emptied down to the two of us and the ticking hush of the house. Lorenzo's face settled into that stern, familiar mask, and his thumb moved once against the heavy signet ring on his finger, turning it. "So you remembered how to come home," he said.
I let the accusation in his eyes pass through me like it belonged to someone else. Instead I asked, carefully, "Is Gia eating peanuts?"
I remembered when Gia had first claimed she was carrying his child, and Lorenzo had ordered me to prepare her meals with my own hands. There had been a scattering of peanuts in one dish, and she had swelled and choked with the allergy until Lorenzo turned the full weight of his fury on me, in front of the whole household, as though I had reached for a weapon and not a garnish.
Lorenzo's brow drew down, genuinely lost. "What are you talking about?"
He had forgotten it. All of it. The dish, the rage, the way he had made me small before the men who feared him. He had wiped it clean, and I had no wish to hand it back to him.
"It's nothing," I said.
