The first thing I notice is the ceiling.
Not carved wood. Not frescoes. Just cracked white paint with a water stain in the corner that looks vaguely like South America.
The second thing is the noise.
Honking. Someone yelling in rapid‑fire Spanish. A baby crying. A dog barking at all of it like it’s personal.
I blink, disoriented.
The bed under me is too soft in the middle, too hard at the edges. The sheet smells like cheap detergent instead of whatever subtle thing the villa used that cost more per ounce than my old rent.
This is not Sicily.
This is not his bed.
No armed guards outside. No Luca’s voice on a radio. Just city noise.
The realization hits like cold water.
I did it.
I left.
The room is small—bed, narrow wardrobe, a rickety table under a barred window. A kitchenette
