Page 451 of Rosetti Family New York
"I… yes? I mean, we're saving lives. How can you not be happy about that?"
I stare at her, this bright young thing who still thinks the world rewards good intentions and positive attitudes. In six months, maybe a year, she'll learn. The job will teach her what it teacheseveryone—that saving lives means carrying the weight of the ones you couldn't save, that every success is temporary, that happiness is a luxury you can't afford when death is always winning.
"Give it time," I tell her, and walk away.
My apartment feels more sterile than usual when I step inside. I check the locks—one, two, three times—before heading to the bedroom closet.
I pull my go-bag and start packing. Clean clothes, first aid supplies, backup phone, tactical gear. Everything organized, everything in its place.
My hand brushes the false panel in the back of the closet as I reach for extra magazines. Behind this wall is the room I built in the months after arriving in Chicago, when the nightmares were worse and control meant something different.
I close the panel and finish packing.
Dom's word echoes: headstrong. A princess who thinks she can handle herself, who gives professional security the slip, who doesn't understand that some battles can't be won with money and attitude. Probably smiles too much, talks too much, expects the world to bend to her sunshine.
I've handled difficult people before. Combat zones are full of soldiers who think they know better than their medic, who fight treatment while bleeding out. The key is establishing dominance early—making clear who's in control.
But this won't be a battlefield casualty grateful to be alive. This will be someone used to getting her way, who sees protection as imprisonment and authority as something to challenge. Someone who probably shares Dr.Whitman's belief that enthusiasm can overcome reality.
The Chicago heat hits me when I step outside, thick with humidity that makes breathing feel like work. July in this city is miserable—the kind of heat that makes people stupid and reckless, that turns minor disagreements into violence.
I head for the airport, already calculating. Professional distance, tactical assessment, controlled environment. Make her understand that cooperation isn't negotiable when her life is at stake.
She'll learn that handling herself is a luxury she can't afford. And I'll teach her the difference between thinking you're in control and actually being protected.
One spoiled princess who probably thinks a smile solves everything.
I can handle that. I can handle anything that doesn't require pretending to be happy about it.
2 - Carmela
The plane door seals shut with a soft hiss, and my entire body vibrates with anticipation. Twenty-three years of being the protected Rosetti doll ends the moment these engines start.
My phone buzzes—Dom's name flashing on the screen. I stare at it for a heartbeat, thumb hovering over the answer button, before switching it off completely. The silence that follows feels monumental.
"Miss Rosetti?" The flight attendant appears with that practiced smile they all wear. "Can I get you anything for the flight?"
"Just some sparkling water, thank you." My voice comes out steadier than expected, though I'm probably grinning like an idiot. This is the last time anyone will call me Miss Rosetti and mean the protected princess. After today, I'll just be Carmela, whoever that turns out to be.
The leather seat feels like silk beneath my hands as I settle back, a melody bubbling up from my chest. I'm actually humming—literally humming—as the engines spool up for departure. The crew must think I'm insane, but who cares? Freedom tastes like champagne bubbles, and I'm intoxicated by possibility.
"You seem excited about Chicago," the attendant observes, setting down my water.
"Oh, I am! The art scene there is incredible—so much emerging talent in River North. Have you ever been to the Palette & Frame exhibit?" My hands move as I talk, animated by genuine passion. "They're showcasing this brilliant sculptor who works exclusively with reclaimed materials. His pieces about urban decay and renewal are just—" I catch myself mid-ramble and laugh. "Sorry, I get carried away about art."
What she doesn't know is that every word is research for my new life. Every gallery I've mentioned, I've already contacted. Every artist connection, carefully cultivated over months of planning.
Manhattan disappears below us, and my escape plan crystallizes one final time. Use the art world connections to slip away at O'Hare. Disappear into the crowds before this Van person Dom mentioned can corner me. Get to my tiny apartment in Wicker Park—not the luxury penthouse Dom arranged, but the cramped studio I found myself through a dealer friend.
For the first time in my life, no one will know where I'm going except me.
O'Hare's crowds swallow me whole, exactly as planned. I weave through the terminal, every sense heightened with nervous energy. Near baggage claim, I spot my target: Rebecca Novak, the gallery owner I've been cultivating for months.
"Rebecca!" I call out, approaching with arms open. "What a wonderful surprise!"
Her face lights up. "Carmela! What brings you to Chicago?"
"Actually," I lean in conspiratorially, "I'm moving here. Starting fresh." The truth fizzes on my tongue like prosecco. "I've been following the River North district for months. The emerging artists there are doing revolutionary work."
