Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse

ent was ee

lence. There was no traffic noise from the street below, no h

bathroom and fli

the mirror wa

ing out in others. My eyes were red and swollen, yet completely dry. As for my face...

rail from my cheekbone down to the corner of my mouth. It wasn

o

mething permanent to remembe

t looked like it had never been opened. Everything inside was per

aid kit was? I wondered. Probably no

forearm. I wasn't a nurse, but over the years, I'd p

time taking care of everyone else, yet I'

medical tape when my phone buzzed on

ring in the empty apartment, th

e bedroom and pi

ph

on my screen lik

cked me just

didn't

your color anyway. It's for brides. You looked like a stain standing n

o came

ting in the passenger seat o

awless, and her smile dazzling. She lo

rested casually, yet posse

hat picture f

arp jawline, his dark hair, the intense foc

the face of

s hand on another woman's thigh while his wife was bleeding in an alley. The

Dante did

ever

ed him into something he was never meant to be. I had written a love story i

dn't

done c

ed. The city sprawled out beneath me, glittering yet cold and unforgiving. Somewhere out there,

s 2:0

e and slipped out of the penth

e lobby was deserted. The doorman

ed of wet concrete and

of the Vitiello estate,

ne of them noted, his ton

hing," I said.

hrough withou

liar paths, but w

bushes I'd pruned countless times, past the fountain where I used to s

he edge of the property, its

hteenth birthday, we had buried

, a live band, and catering from the city. But Dante had quietly slipped away from the

ember who I am

er then. And I was al

him so muc

o my knees

. I didn't bother looking for a shovel; I dug with my bare hands. The dirt was freezin

them out and tossed them aside. The fresh bandages on my arm were soaked through, b

dn't

t I hadn't just imagined it all. I was searching for the girl I used t

ers hit

was dull a

tin box we had buried. Most of the paint had pee

f the ground and

open t

pieces of paper and a t

e dampness. They were still folded exactly as we had le

ed my pa

-loopy and childish, written by some

Vitiello until the end of

at thos

e thorn and used the blood as ink. It felt so romantic, so poetic at the

d, naive gir

waste o

e paper, the physical marks of everything I had given up. Seven years. Seve

for

le at 3:00 a.m. and dig up t

aside and un

d pressed down hard on the paper, leaving grooves th

for my family to be strong.

ph

even when I sat beside him every single day, listening to his dreams, rea

mi

er

wasn't even a footnote. I was ju