Page 459 of Rosetti Family New York
"So does joy." Her smile never wavers. "When was the last time you did something just because it felt good?"
The elevator dings at the eighth floor before I have to answer that dangerous question.
My apartment door requires three separate locks. I work through them methodically while she watches, probably memorizing the sequence for future escape attempts.
When we step inside, she stops in the entryway, taking in the sparse living room—single black leather chair, bare walls, kitchen so minimal it barely qualifies as functional.
"Wow," she says after a long pause. "This is exactly what I pictured. If I were designing a set for 'Sad Bachelor Who Forgot Other Humans Exist,' this would be perfect."
"It's functional."
"So is a prison cell." She walks deeper into the space, trailing her fingers along my empty bookshelf. "Where do guests sit when they visit?"
"They don't."
"Right. Of course not." She spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. "One chair, one plate—let me guess, one towel? One spoon? Do you wash it between coffee stirring and eating your single serving of sadness?"
"We need to establish ground rules," I say, setting her bag down harder than necessary.
"Oh good, rules. Because this place wasn't depressing enough without a prison manual."
"You don't go near the windows without permission. Curtains stay closed. No phone calls unless I'm present. You don't answer the door. When I'm not here, the security system stays armed."
She drops into my chair—my only chair—and props her feet on the coffee table. "Anything else, warden? Daily inspections? Lights out at nine?"
"This isn't a game, Carmela."
"No, it's not." The humor drains from her voice, replaced by something sharper. "It's my life. And while I appreciate the whole brooding protector thing you've got going on, I'm not actually a princess who needs to be locked in a tower."
"Your family asked me—"
"To keep me safe. Not to turn me into furniture." She stands, moving closer. "I'll follow your security rules, Van. But I'm not going to pretend this setup is normal or healthy."
The next morning, I realize my tactical error.
Carmela doesn't fight my rules—she subverts them through aggressive cheerfulness.
"Good morning!" She's somehow awake before me, having figured out my coffee maker despite its military-grade complexity. "I made coffee. Well, I made what you call coffee. It tastes like motor oil, but it's hot."
I grunt, reaching for the mug she's holding out.
"Also, your refrigerator is having an existential crisis. It contains one expired yogurt, something that might have been lettuce in a past life, and seventeen bottles of hot sauce. Are you secretly a condiment collector? Is that your hobby?"
"I eat at the hospital."
"Right. Because hospital food is known for its excellence." She opens a cabinet, finds it empty, moves to the next one. "Oh look, protein powder and sadness. A balanced breakfast."
I watch her explore my kitchen like she's conducting an archaeological dig, narrating her discoveries with running commentary that should annoy me but doesn't.
"One knife, one cutting board, one pan. It's like minimalism and depression had a baby and raised it on neglect."
My phone buzzes. Dom checking in. I step away to take the call, but I can still hear her.
"Don't mind me," she calls out. "I'll just be here, talking to your empty cabinets. They're very good listeners."
When I return, she's somehow procured flowers—where the fuck did she get flowers?—and arranged them in my coffee pot.
"That's for coffee."
