I Faked My Death, He Lost His Soul

I went upstairs.

In the early hours of the morning, as the city began to lighten, my phone screen glowed on the nightstand. A single message.

My visa application. Approved.

I got out of bed. I dressed in simple, dark clothes. I picked up the single, pre-packed suitcase by the door and opened my bedroom door for the last time.

As I descended the stairs, I saw him.

William Salvatore, dressed in a flawlessly tailored morning suit, stood in the grand foyer. His wedding party—a collection of severe-looking consiglieri and captains—stood behind him. Seraphina, at her own insistence, had chosen a traditional ceremony. She was a swirl of ivory silk and lace, a veil covering her face.

William approached her. He couldn’t see her features. He thought it was me under the lace.

He took her hand. His voice, usually so cool, was uncharacteristically gentle. “It’s alright. I’m here.”

I stood in the shadows of the staircase, watching.

William Salvatore.

The impeccable Don.

He deserved a poised, compliant wife. A proper ornament.

This life, if you lift that veil and find it’s her, you should be pleased.

Consider it my parting gift. You’re welcome.

After the bride was led out to the waiting cars, and Victor and Giselle followed, chattering excitedly, the house fell into a deep, waiting silence.

I walked down the stairs. I opened the front door. I stepped out into the cool dawn air and did not look back.

A taxi idled at the end of the drive. I got in.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asked.

I didn’t answer immediately. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, black remote. I looked out the window at the Caruso mansion, its stone façade glowing in the early light.

My mother had designed that house. Every cornice, every window. It had been her sanctuary.

Now it was a tomb for her memory, occupied by the people who helped destroy her.

My expression didn’t change. I pressed the red button.

BOOM

The sound was colossal, a fist of thunder punching the quiet morning. The charges, placed by the same crew that had handled Seraphina, detonated in sequence. The beautiful facade bulged, then erupted in a fireball of orange and black. Windows blew out. Stonework cascaded into the manicured gardens. Thick, oily smoke billowed into the sky.

The taxi shuddered. The driver screamed, fumbling with the wheel, his face bone-white. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Lady, that… that’s your house! It just blew up!”

I watched the flames reflected in the window. I leaned back and fastened my seatbelt. “Yes. I blew it up.”

He stared at me in the rearview mirror, his mouth agape.

“My mother designed it,” I said, my voice calm, conversational. “My father filled it with his whore and his bastard. It made me sick. Now it’s gone.”

I met his horrified, fascinated gaze. “Take me to the airport.”

He swallowed hard, looked once more at the inferno that was consuming a city block, then back at my composed face.

“Yeah. Okay. Airport.”

He put the car in gear and pulled away.

I didn’t look back. In the side mirror, the glow of the fire painted the dawn sky a violent, beautiful red, growing smaller and smaller until it was gone.