Page 67 of Power
I shift in my seat, then stretch my legs out. “Private planes? Expensive liquor? Perks of being an international criminal?” I smirk. “No, I think I’ll keep it.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness to it. “That’s not what I meant. I mean… don’t you ever miss normal things? Airports, security lines, screaming children kicking the back of your seat?”
“Sounds like hell.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I used to dream about traveling. But my life was…” She exhales then stares at the glass in her hands. “Controlled. Everything was decided for me. Where I went, what I wore, who I spoke to. It didn’t even feel like a life. More like being on display, just something to be owned.”
A muscle tightens in my jaw. “You’re not owned anymore.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, like she’s searching for something. “No. I’m not.”
The quiet between us isn’t empty. It’s heavy, filled with the weight of everything we haven’t said. Maybe we’re not ready to say it yet. Maybe we don’t have to.
I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. It’s not just for her. It’s for me too. A tether. A reminder. A distraction from the fact that I still fucking hate flying.
But with her here, it’s not so terrifying.
***
Italy is different than I remember. Maybe because I’m different.
We walk through the narrow streets of Florence, the stone beneath our feet worn smooth from centuries of footsteps. I take her through alleyways I used to cut through as a teenager, past cafes where I spent stolen afternoons, past buildings that once held pieces of my old life. She watches me closely, like she knows I’m somewhere else, caught between memory and the present.
“Did you ever think you’d come back?” she asks as we stand on the Ponte Vecchio, the river below us reflecting the city lights.
I lean against the railing and watch the water. “I didn’t think about it. I was too busy surviving.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Surviving isn’t the same as living, you know.”
I turn to her. “And what do you know about living?”
She shrugs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not much. But I know I want to try.”
Something tightens in my chest. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”
Her lips curve, and she reaches for my hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Promise me something.”
“Depends.”
“Promise me you’ll let me do the same for you.”
I exhale, long and slow, the weight of her words settling deep. She thinks I can be fixed. That I can be saved. Maybe that’s the biggest difference between us—she still believes people can heal. I’m not sure I do.
But I look at her, at the way the city lights catch in her eyes, at the way she stands next to me, fearless despite everything she’s been through. And maybe, just maybe, I want to believe her.
“Okay.”
***
The art gallery is packed. People mill around with champagne flutes in hand and admiring paintings I barely glance at. Vittoria, on the other hand, is absorbed. She drifts from piece to piece, eyes bright, taking in every brushstroke, every detail.
“You like art?” I ask, watching her instead of the paintings.
She nods. “I never got to see much of it before. But it’s… I don’t know. It’s like pieces of someone’s soul, right there on the canvas. It makes me feel something.”
I watch the way her fingers brush over her arm, the way she tilts her head as she studies the colors.
“What about music?”
