Purchased a new phone from a discreet vendor who knew better than to ask questions. Filed a report with the local precinct—a formality, nothing more. The cops in this territory were bought and paid for, but paperwork left a trail, and trails could be useful.
Then I finalized my arrangements with a contact who specialized in moving people across borders quietly. Washington territory. Genovese protection. A flight in ten days.
I would study while I healed. Rebuild what remained of my life in a place where the Volpe name held no power over me.
By the time I returned to the safe house, the grandfather clock in the foyer was striking seven.
The rooms had been only half-cleared, yet dust had already begun to settle over the surfaces like a funeral shroud. The air tasted of abandonment—stale, cold, untouched.
I knew then. He had never come back. Not once.
After forcing down a simple meal I could barely taste, I resumed sorting through his belongings. Silk ties. Monogrammed cufflinks. The detritus of a life I had shared but never truly inhabited.
The door clicked open.
Nico.