He kept his office in the North End.
Some nights I slept at his brownstone, in a guest room at first, then not. Some mornings Carlo burst into the kitchen demanding pancakes shaped like animals no pancake could reasonably become. Sarah stopped calling Franco “your handsome felony” after he fixed her flat tire in the rain and said nothing when she cried about how close she had come to losing me.
Jessica still distrusted him on principle.
Lauren liked him but pretended not to.
Giuseppe claimed credit for everything.
And Ryan became a name I did not flinch at anymore.
One evening, almost exactly a year after the break-in, I came home from dinner with my friends. Alone. By choice.
The same streetlight flickered outside my building. The same stairs creaked. My hallway smelled faintly of Mrs. Harris’s lemon cleaner.
I reached my door and stopped.
For a second, memory rose.
The open door.
Ryan’s smile.
Franco’s voice from the kitchen.
Then the moment passed.
My door was locked.
My hands were steady.
Inside, my apartment was warm and quiet. My desk waited by the window. My books leaned on the shelf. My life, interrupted but not destroyed, surrounded me.
My phone buzzed.
Franco: Home safe?
I smiled.
Me: Safe.
Then I added: Come over if you want. I made too much pasta.
His reply came fast.
Franco: That sounds like an emergency requiring immediate attention.
Twenty minutes later, he knocked.
Not entering with a key. Not appearing from the shadows. Not taking up space I had not offered.
Knocking.
I opened the door.
Franco stood there with wine, cannoli, and the careful smile of a man who knew exactly how much that knock meant.
“Miss Collins,” he said.
“Mr. Richetti.”
“May I come in?”
I stepped aside.
“Yes,” I said. “You may.”
And this time, when he entered my apartment, nothing in me felt afraid.
THE END
