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Chapter 37: No Loose Ends

Author: Ann Lottimore
last update Petsa ng paglalathala: 2025-07-31 07:58:19

The hum of the engines faded into the night like a secret being swallowed whole.

The private jet taxied to a slow, precise stop along the far end of the terminal. No terminal lights. No chatter from flight staff. Just darkness, pierced only by the low gleam of the runway beacons — and the two matte-black SUVs parked exactly where they were supposed to be. Waiting.

Inside the jet, Siena adjusted the blanket around Lucia’s small body. The child had fallen asleep hours ago, head pressed to her mot
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    The evening continued long after the conversation had ended. Neither of them seemed willing to be the one who finally stood up and put things away. The photograph remained on the floor between them. The chess box sat beside it, still open, the velvet lining exposed beneath the warm glow of the lamps. One forgotten white pawn rested near the edge of the board, casting a tiny shadow across the wood. Outside, Milan carried on without them. A tram bell echoed somewhere beyond the buildings. A scooter passed. A dog barked once and was answered by another farther away. The sounds arrived muted, distant, as if the city itself understood it wasn't invited into this moment. Inside the apartment, everything felt suspended. No threats. No phone calls. No reports waiting on a desk. No Lucetti. No La Serpenta. No war demanding attention. Just silence. The kind that didn't need to be filled. Lucia slept peacefully down the hall. Every so often the apartment offered proof of it — a faint r

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    The morning entered without knocking — soft, wide, yellow. It slid over the tiled floor and climbed the edges of the table, finding what the night had left behind: two cups, a half-folded towel, and the smell of boiled water cooling in the kettle. Siena opened the kitchen window with the slow precision of someone who hadn’t slept properly but refused to let exhaustion decide the day. The latch clicked; air moved in. Milan’s hum rose from below — coffee machines, early scooters, someone dragging a chair across a terrace. The apartment was no longer a refuge under siege. It was simply awake. She moved quietly through her small rituals: kettle refilled, flame lit, cups arranged in a straight line though no one asked her to. Her hands carried a faint tremor of fatigue, the kind that lingers after vigilance rather than fear. Steam began to bloom again, and the kettle started its first shy hiss. The front door lock turned. Footsteps, unhurried. Adriano entered, sleeves rolled, jacket fo

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