The smell hits me first—fresh bread, espresso, and something else. Something that used to mean home. I stand on the corner of Mulberry and Grand, staring at the narrow street that raised me, and I feel like a ghost visiting her own grave.
Little Italy has changed. The colors are duller, like someone turned down the saturation on a photograph. Graffiti I don't recognize tags the buildings. The faces passing by are harder, more cautious. Fear has settled into these streets like smoke into fabric—impossible to wash out.
I adjust my sunglasses and start walking.
I've dressed down today. Dark jeans, a simple black coat, and hair pulled back. Nothing that screams mafia princess" or "Moretti wife." I want to blend in, to see what's left of my father's legacy without the weight of my new name p
