*ORLANDO*
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of my apartment, casting a gentle halo around the edges of the room. I strolled through the space, barefoot against the cool floor, feeling a surge of exhilarating freedom that had replaced the deep gnaw of chains. My body was still marked—both by the ink on my skin and the weight of my past. The bandage covering my freshly inked tattoo felt tight against my chest, a reminder of battles fought and those yet to come. The design—Vincenzo's mafia crest, but now altered—was a bitter concoction of pride and rebellion; the snake and rose infused with a lion-handled knife, creating a vivid narrative of my childhood, one that clashed with the present.
As I wandered into the kitchen, the aroma of brewing coffee drew me toward Nanna, my
