Page 88 of Luca
There is no going back.
She is mine.
And I am hers.
And God help anyone who tries to touch what we have.
Epilogue: Gabriella
Three Months Later…
The freedom hits me anew every time I step onto Prague's cobblestone streets alone.
No Paolo trailing behind me with his hand hovering near his jacket. No carefully planned routes or timed check-ins. Just me, walking through the city that changed everything, with nothing but my own curiosity to guide me.
I pause outside a small café where I used to drink terrible coffee with Carlos and tease him about his questionable life choices. Through the window, I can see him at our old table, probably telling some unsuspecting backpacker about the dragon tattoo he definitely shouldn't have gotten. Some things never change.
But I have.
Three months ago, I would have gone inside to say hello, maybe spent an hour catching up on hostel gossip and travel stories. Now I smile and keep walking. That life of nomadic wandering and temporary connections feels like someone else's memory.
My phone buzzes. A text from Luca: "How's your walk going? Business calls running long."
"Perfect. Take your time," I text back.
The casual exchange would have been impossible months ago. Back when I was pretending to be Sofia, back when every moment away from his sight felt stolen. Now hetrusts me to disappear into Prague for hours and return to him because I want to, not because I have to.
The change happened a few weeks ago when he surprised me with a car of my own. A small blue car in the driveway with my name on the registration. Nothing flashy, nothing that screamed "mafia wife," just reliable transportation and the promise that I could use it whenever I wanted.
The first time I'd driven myself to the market alone, Rosa had watched from the kitchen window like I might never return. But I did return, with groceries and stories about the vendor who'd remembered me from our previous trips together.
"You're different," she'd said, unpacking tomatoes. "Happier."
She was right. I was finally living as myself instead of performing as someone else.
Now I turn down a narrow street that leads toward the gallery district, my steps quickening with anticipation. Sofia's building comes into view, a converted warehouse with large windows and iron fire escapes that give it an artistic charm. Nothing like the pristine villa where she grew up, but so much more alive.
I climb three flights of stairs and knock on the door marked with a small hand-painted number seven.
"Gabby?" Sofia's voice comes through the door, cautious but pleased.
"It's me."
The multiple locks I hear being undone make me smile. My sister has learned to be careful, but she's also learned to be independent.
When the door opens, I barely recognize her. Sofia's hair is shorter now, a warm auburn that catches the afternoon light streaming through her windows. She's wearing paint-stained jeans and a loose sweater, and there's a confidence in her posture I've never seen before.
"You look incredible," I tell her, pulling her into a fierce hug.
"You look happy," she says against my shoulder, and I realize she's right.
Her apartment is small but bright, with morning light flooding through windows she's kept bare of curtains. Art supplies cover a makeshift desk, brushes and paints. A Czech-Italian dictionary sits open beside a notebook filled with her careful handwriting.
"You're learning the language," I observe.
"Basic conversational stuff. It helps at the gallery." She gestures toward a tiny kitchen where something that smells like actual food simmers on the stove. "I'm making lunch. Nothing fancy, but it's mine."
The pride in her voice breaks my heart in the best possible way.
