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"I won't become you."

I would have this child. Live my own way.

Through the soundproof glass, I looked at Mary sleeping on the bed and whispered those words.

No hysterical fight. No agonized accusations. The mountain of shadow that had pressed on me for twenty-four years crumbled to dust.

I was going to have this baby.

With my own hands, my sewing needle, every inch of fabric I designed—I'd build him a clean, dignified sky.

I cashed the check. $85,000 to the hospital. The rest into a long-term rehab trust in my mother's name. It was all I could do—use his money to save her life, ensure she'd never worry about medical bills again.

I walked out of St. Mary's Hospital. Cold New Jersey morning wind hit my face.

I pulled my dirty coat tighter and turned into a 24-hour internet café on the corner.

The café was empty at dawn, smelling faintly of moldy tobacco. I sat at an old computer in the back, plugged in my USB, and uploaded four years of garment drafts, pattern notes, and size charts to my encrypted cloud.

Then I opened the international flight booking system.

With the last $900 in my bank account, I locked in the fastest one-way international flight that evening.

[Newark International Airport (EWR) → Venice Marco Polo International Airport (VCE)]

[One-way economy. Non-refundable.]

I clicked "Confirm Payment" without hesitation.

[Congratulations! Purchase successful!]

As I pushed open the café door, the morning sun finally broke through days of gray clouds, gilding the city's puddles with faint gold.

I lifted my hand, palm pressed to my warm, flat stomach, and took a deep breath of clean, crisp air.

Venice. A place of bridges and water where no one knew us. No betrayal. No lies.

Goodbye, Manhattan.

Goodbye, Marcelo Moretti.

Chapter 26

Marcelo

The low-temperature evaporator in the Long Island underground slaughterhouse rumbled like a dying beast.

Meat hooks dangled from overhead tracks, swaying in the damp, freezing air, crusted with dark red gore. Across the concrete floor, filthy water mixed with ice chips and bile pooled in the cracks.

Chad Wellington IV hung naked in midair, suspended by two rusted chains. His toes barely scraped the frozen cement.

His right ribcage had caved in. His nose was pulverized. His left eye bulged like a rotten purple grape. A diesel-soaked rag was jammed between his teeth.

Tony stood behind me, gripping a barbed pipe. Blood dripped from the metal, spattering on the floor.

I sat across from him in a folding chair. Hadn't even taken off my suit jacket. Legs crossed. Fingers toying with a silver letter opener. The blade caught the harsh fluorescent light.

"Take it out," I said. Flat.