In the days that followed, Alessandro didn't leave. He didn't go back to New York.In the morning, someone would deliver my favorite breakfast, with a card in his handwriting.At noon, a wall of white roses would be delivered to my Notting Hill apartment, the same kind he held in his hands when I first saw him behind that little tavern in the Bronx seven years ago.At night, I'd open Instagram to find various new accounts showering my posts with gifts.I blocked every IP and account, but for each one I blocked, a new one would appear. I'd block five, and he'd create a sixth.On top of that, I noticed that whenever I went out, a man in a trench coat would follow me from a distance.Once, in an unfamiliar city, someone had tried to snatch my purse while I was out buying coffee. He had promised me then that whenever I left his territory, he would have someone protect me.This had to stop.I needed a quiet space to create, I had an exhibition to prepare for. I couldn't let him consume my l
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