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Her face softens again, guilt flickering in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says gently, stepping closer. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

But I step back, just slightly.

She reads it in my body before I even say the words.

“Please,” I whisper. “Just for a little while… I want to walk alone.”

She doesn’t argue. But her face crumples in that quiet way it always does when I wound her without meaning to. She nods, brushing her hair behind her ear, then turns and walks off down the street.

My throat tightens.

I don’t like seeing her walk away. I don’t like the hole she leaves behind. But I can’t stop myself from standing still, my hands clutched at my sides, my lashes heavy with tears.

I blink quickly, but it’s no use.

The wetness spills anyway.

****

The clock on the mantel ticks softly—each second pulling me closer to the time I said I wouldn’t think about.

Nonna has just retired to her room as early as I knew she would. I waited until I heard the soft thump of her bedroom door closing and the gentle rustle of her rosary beads.

My hands tremble a little as I unfasten the buttons on my nightdress and change into something else—something presentable, something simple but proper. A cream-colored blouse with delicate lace trim at the collar and a soft blue wool skirt that reaches past my knees, modest and sweet, the kind you’d wear to a quiet church lunch or a Sunday visit with neighbors. I smooth the fabric down over my hips, self-conscious of the way it clings to my body beneath the hem.

I wrap a light cardigan around my shoulders and check myself in the small mirror above the hallway table. I try to look calm. Proper. Normal. Like a girl on her way to something safe.

I slip out the back door quietly.

The cool evening breeze brushes against my skin. I walk down the little path, past the garden gate, until I reach the street corner just a bit away from the house. I sit down gently on the low pavement, folding my hands in my lap, my eyes scanning the road nervously.

The sky is beginning to dim, painted in dusky lavender and pale orange, and the street lamps are just starting to flicker to life. I tell myself this is fine. Just a little conversation. Just… getting to know someone. Like he said.

Still, my heart thumps too loudly in my chest.

Minutes pass.

Then I hear it.

A car turns into the street—an old black sedan. The music is loud, bouncing against the buildings, and the boys inside are laughing too much. Their voices carry even before the car stops.

I rise to my feet, brushing my skirt nervously, as the car pulls up near me.

I take a few steps closer.

And that’s when I hear it—Rafaele’s voice, low and smug.

“La mia scopata è qui—get out.”

My heart stutters.

One of the boys laughs and shoves the door open.

“Che stronzo, asshole,” he mutters as he steps out. The second boy snorts and whistles loudly.

“Look at those hips—God did not make her for convent walls.”

The other one laughs again. “That’s a holy handful if I’ve ever seen one.”