By the time the house goes quiet, my decision has worn a rut in my skull.
The clock on my wall glows 01:27.
My flight out of Palermo is at 02:15.
Rafael wasn’t exaggerating: I won’t get a second window like this.
My bag is already packed.
Just enough to pass a half‑interested security glance: a couple of T‑shirts, jeans, toothbrushes, and the beat‑up notebook I’ve carried out since the last tour. Nothing expensive. Nothing with labels screaming Moretti money.
The important things—Rafael’s files, the fake passport, the boarding pass—live on my phone, and a slim USB tucked into my back pocket.
All day I’ve told myself I’m just…preparing.
Now it’s time to admit I’m leaving.
I slip on sneakers, pull on black leggings, and have a dark hoodie. Cap. Sunglasses go into the bag; no one wil
