Page 134 of Impenitent Claim

“Some of his shirts to make a blanket,” I gulped. “The watch my papa gave him—it was our grandpa’s. The Bible mama gave him at his First Communion, although I don’t think he looked at it since. And his stupid video game console.”

Ilya rubbed my spine. “Anything downstairs or in the attic? There are a few boxes of your parents' personal effects.”

I smiled and leaned forward to place a kiss on his chest. “You haunted the shit out of this house, phantom. You know about my parent’s boxes.”

“Mhmm, I did.” After another tight squeeze, Ilya let me go. “I’ll run up and grab their boxes. You can wait for me to grab Gio’s things.”

I shook my head. “We need to hurry.”

Ten minutes later, my spectre found me loading Alonzo’s philosophy books into a suitcase.

“Did Cecilia escape?” I asked, going to the wardrobe for some spare clothes. I pulled open his drawer and covered my mouth. There were dirty movies and magazines inside.

Ilya came up behind me. “Didn’t think the kid knew about that stuff.”

I shook my head. “Alonzo is full of surprises.”

“The don’s sister is dead. Broken spine by the looks of it,” Ilya answered my other question.

“Good,” I breathed. Someday, decades down the road, when I was old and fragile, I would have my last confession, lay all my sins bare. But pushing Cecilia would never be one of them. That death was purely self-defense. There was no thread of guilt, and time wouldn’t change that.

Once the items were gathered, and Ilya lifted the zipped luggage off the bed, I followed him into the hall, where my own luggage already waited.

“I’m sure there will be things I wish I grabbed,” I confessed as we trudged downstairs.

“I’ll replace them,” the spectre promised.

I smiled. “The things that can’t be replaced are what matter, silly. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Ilya remained silent tugging the bigger, heavier bags out the front door. But I paused on the threshold. There was something left to do. I tugged on my finger, taking one last look over the house of horrors.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to the good, the bad, and the ugly memories. My fingers uncurled; my gaze shifted to the dark, reassuring presence walking down the front steps. The circular object fell. The small metallic plink was my own personal strepitus.

Ilya’s head snapped toward the noise. I watched him stare at my engagement ring sliding over the floor. When his gaze met mine, I smiled.

“We’re done here,” I said with finality.

As I walked down the steps, there wasn’t even the slightest temptation to look back.

I waited beside the trunk for Ilya to rearrange the boxes. This was the start of a new life. How many people were lucky enough to say they had a second chance, a do-over on a clean slate, I couldn’t say. But I was blessed to be one of them. We were leaving the East Coast—for good! Somehow Ilya’s connections to the criminal underworld made it so the doctors didn’t file a report on Alonzo’s gunshot wound. We would stay in a hotel for the next few days, and when my friend was released, he would come with us to the Windy City, where Ilya said we’d care for him, his recovery, and his rehabilitation as an amputee.

“The Scorso Mafia will be here any minute. I hate to rush you, but it’s time to go, siren.” Ilya slammed the trunk closed.

“No, rush. I’m ready!” I moved to the front seat.

The Scorso Famiglia agreed to dispose of the bodies, file the necessary paperwork to sell the house, and transfer any assets. For freedom, I was handing them the scraps and rubble that was once my family’s empire.

They could take it all. I was done with the Rinaldi legacy.

Not because there were only broken ruins that I had no interest in resurrecting. But because there was nothing for me here. My future was in the West, the promise of a new life and a fresh start. So long as Alonzo and I never came back, we were safe.

“I’m free,” I whispered. A single tear trickled down my cheek. Sorrow was bound to come, and I would spend the next season of my life grieving. But I would also have the space to heal. There was always spring after the winter. “Let’s go, phantom.”

Ilya laced his fingers through mine, starting the engine. He didn’t move to kiss me, and I was tired of the distance. Unbuckling, I leaned over to fist his shirt in my hands.Something gold sparkled on his chest. I blinked. Slowly, I pulled his shirt to the side. It was a gold circle, the center missing. A Latin phrase from my favorite poem was etched into the metal.

The pendant—my pendant.

“I wore it every day since you left it in Chicago,” Ilya confessed, voice the texture of velvet, rich and luxurious.

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