Seven Years of Omertà

In the chaos, Dominic immediately grabbed Penelope's hand, shielding her as they ran toward the emergency exit.

He didn't look back.

He didn't reach for me.

The Don of the Sloane family, a man who commanded soldiers and controlled territory across the Eastern Seaboard, had exactly one instinct when danger arrived, and it wasn't me. It had never been me.

I stood in the emptying corridor and watched them disappear through the exit doors, his hand on the small of her back, her stuffed animal still clutched to her chest, and I felt nothing. Not anger. Not hurt. Nothing. The nothing was worse than anything, because it meant the part of me that could be wounded by Dominic Sloane had finally died, and I hadn't even noticed the moment of its passing.

Five minutes later, the alarm was cleared. A false alarm.

Dominic returned to where we had been standing, looking around. His eyes scanned the area, but I was nowhere in sight.

Two hours later, I was at the train station, my suitcase in hand, waiting for my departure.

The station was a transitional space, neutral ground at the edge of no one's territory, filled with the anonymous movement of people whose lives didn't revolve around blood oaths and family allegiance. I sat on a metal bench with my suitcase between my knees and watched the departure board flicker.

My phone kept buzzing nonstop. Dominic's name flashed on the screen again and again, but I didn't bother answering. Instead, I set my phone to silent.

Right before boarding the train, I sent him one final message: We're done.

As soon as it was sent, I pulled out my SIM card and tossed it in the nearest trash can. It landed beside a coffee cup and a crumpled receipt, and that was the end of seven years. A SIM card in a trash can. The most important severance of my life, and it weighed less than a gram.

It was nearly midnight when I arrived at the station in my hometown. The coastal air hit me first, salt and cold and something green underneath it. Marchetti territory. The old neighborhood. A world away from the Sloane empire's concrete and glass.

As I stepped off the train, I saw Dad waiting for me.

Giuseppe Ferrante stood under the station's fluorescent lights in his old wool coat, his hands in his pockets, his posture the patient stillness of a man who'd been waiting for hours without complaint. He smiled the moment he saw me and led me to the car.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I noticed a large bag of my favorite cannoli from Benedetto's and a carton of yogurt waiting for me.

Before starting the car, Dad chuckled softly, grabbing one of the yogurts and poking a straw through the lid, handing it to me. "Here, drink this," he said warmly.

As I took it from him, I noticed the gray hairs at his temples, and something inside me broke.

Not cracked. Not fractured. Broke. The way a dam breaks, all at once, the full weight of everything held back for years finding the weakness and pouring through it.

Without warning, I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

The yogurt shook in my hand. The car was dark and smelled like his aftershave and the leather of seats that had carried me to school a lifetime ago, and I was twenty-seven years old and crying like I was seven, and I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop because I was safe, and being safe after years of not being safe is the thing that finally undoes you.

"Dad, I'm home for good this time," I choked out between sobs. "I'm never leaving again. I'm going to stay here with you and Mom. Forever."

Dad chuckled again, this time a little more tenderly. He placed his hand flat on the steering wheel, palm down, fingers spread, and the gesture was so familiar it made me cry harder because it meant he'd already decided. He'd decided the moment he saw my face on the platform. He'd decided before I called. He'd probably decided the day I left.

"You silly girl. Whether you stay or not, you'll always be our precious Olive."

He could tell I wasn't in the best place, but he didn't ask me to explain. He just drove, respecting my silence. The streets of the old neighborhood passed by the window, dark and quiet, the waterfront restaurants shuttered for the night, the fishing boats rocking gently in the harbor. This was Marchetti territory, but it was also just home. My home. The place where Olivia Ferrante existed before the Sloane name had ever touched her.

When we got home, I showered and ate a simple dinner my parents had prepared. Pasta with sauce from a jar and bread that my mother had baked that morning, the kind of meal that costs nothing and means everything.

By ten, I was lying in bed, staring at my phone. The new SIM card my father had quietly produced from a kitchen drawer, no questions asked. I opened my music app, hoping to find something relaxing to help me sleep. That's when I noticed several unread private messages.

They were from Ava Conti, one of my closest associates from the Sloane operation. She seemed shocked by my sudden departure. Her messages were full of concern, asking if everything was okay and if there was anything she could do to help. The words were carefully chosen, the way all communication was in our world, but underneath the caution I could feel genuine worry.

Just as I was trying to figure out how to reply, another message from her came in. A video file this time.

It came with a note.

Olivia, this video's blowing up in the family's internal channels. It's about Penelope and Dominic.

I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the file. The phone's glow was the only light in the room, and the house was silent around me, and somewhere hundreds of miles away the Sloane empire was doing what it always did, grinding forward, indifferent to the women it consumed.

I pressed play.