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I press my lips together and lower my eyes to my lap. I trace the hem of my shirt with nervous fingers and whisper inside my head, God, forgive me again.

“He came into my Nonna’s café,” I say softly. “A few times. He was… nice. Always quiet. I started to… care about him.”

Enzo lifts a brow. “Vieri? Nice?”

I manage a small nod, avoiding his eyes.

He chuckles, then leans back. “That’s rich.”

But then his voice changes—drops lower, more serious. “Why were you bleeding when I saw you? Why were you running?”

My throat tightens and I look at him again—at the kind eyes, the gentle tone. Maybe he’d help. Maybe if I told him the truth, he’d take pity. Maybe I could go home. See Nonna again. Hold Bea’s hand one more time.

Maybe—

A sudden jolt shakes the car. My shoulder jerks forward and the seatbelt catches me. A loud thunk echoes as another car bumps into us from behind.

“What the—” Enzo mutters, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.

The glove compartment snaps open from the impact. A black handgun spills out and lands right at my feet.

My breath stops.

Enzo reacts fast, shoving it back inside and slamming the compartment shut. Then he leans out of his window and shouts in Italian, furious, “Ma sei cieco, stronzo?! Guarda dove vai!” Are you blind, asshole?! Watch where you're going!

He slams back into his seat, adjusting the rear view mirror with an irritated grunt. Then he looks at me like nothing happened.

“We were saying?” he says sweetly. “Why were you in such a bad state that day?”

My heart thumps against my ribs. The weight of the ankle monitor. The memory of the gun. The way Vieri’s hands felt around my neck. And the quiet warning in his eyes.

They're all monsters.

All of them. If I tried to run, they would kill me whether I succeeded or not.

I take a shaky breath and look down at my hands. “We had a little fight, that’s all.”

The words taste like ash.

The traffic clears eventually, and we glide into a quieter part of the city, the car humming beneath us like it knows where we’re going. Then Enzo pulls up outside a modest boutique. There’s a sleek mannequin in the window, draped in silk—slim waist, sharp jawline, perfect everything. Nothing like me.

Enzo opens the door for me, offering a kind smile as I step down from the car. “Shouldn’t take too long,” he says. “Just a quick fitting.”

My fingers twist around the hem of my shirt. Quick sounds better than long. I nod and follow him inside.

The scent of fabric softener, perfume, and stale coffee hits me as we enter. A thin woman with short-cropped grey hair and thick glasses perched on the edge of her nose greets us. She doesn’t bother hiding the once-over she gives me. Her lips press into a line.

“We have limited sizes,” she says tightly. “For girls like her, we may need to custom cut something. A bit of weight loss might help.”

Her words hit like a slap. Not unexpected—just one of those slaps you never quite learn to dodge.

I stare at the floor, lips pressed together. My weight has always been the first thing people saw, the first thing they decided they didn’t like. I'm used to it. But it doesn't make it easier.

Before I can mumble something polite, Enzo steps forward, his smile sharp and cold. “You have bald patches,” he says. “I haven’t complained about it. Get her a dress, and it better look damn good on her.”

The woman blinks, caught off guard, and then stammers something about checking the back before disappearing through the beaded curtain.

I blink up at him.