I went to the small box by the bed and opened it. Inside were only a few items—an old necklace, its gold worn thin by decades of careful handling, and the personal documents I had guarded all this time. Papers bearing seals that meant nothing to those who did not understand the weight of blood and belonging. That necklace had been meant to symbolize a kind of inheritance, passed down through generations of women who had survived this life. I would not let it fall into hands that did not deserve it.
"Consider it a farewell gift," I murmured to the empty room, my fingers tracing the delicate chain one final time before closing the lid.
Late at night, Giorgio came back. He was carrying a bag from the old Sicilian butcher on Mulberry Street—carefully prepared meat, the aroma of rosemary and garlic spreading through the room like a memory of better times. He looked to be in a very good mood, his shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were when Family business weighed on him.
"For you," he said, setting it on the table with a flourish. "I remember you like this."