Chapter 3

Giovanni recovered first, his slick politician's mask sliding back into place. He beckoned a waiter over. "Our... friend is dining alone. Please bring him over. He'll be joining us."

The waiter, confused but obliging, came to my table. Before I could refuse, Giovanni himself was standing over me, his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of false friendship. "Alex, come on. Don't be a stranger."

He was enjoying this, the public performance of magnanimity. Angela and Chaney watched, their expressions a mixture of irritation and curiosity. I knew refusing would only make me look petty, so I let him lead me to their table.

"Look who's here," Giovanni announced grandly.

"What are you wearing?" Chaney asked, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "You look stupid."

"Chaney, be nice," Angela said, but there was no force behind it. Her eyes were still scanning my appearance, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"I decided I needed a change," I said simply, taking a seat.

Giovanni settled back in his chair, draping an arm around Angela's. "Well, change is good. We were just talking about the campaign. Things are looking fantastic." He smiled at me, a predator's smile. "You must be so proud of Angela."

I didn't answer. A waiter arrived to take my order.

"Alex doesn't eat spicy food," Angela said automatically, not even looking at me. "He'll have the sea bass."

For ten years, I had cooked every meal. I knew her every preference, every allergy. I had tailored my own tastes to fit hers, avoiding the spicy, flavorful foods I actually loved.

She had no idea what I liked. After a decade of marriage, she didn't know the first thing about me.

The thought was so bleak it was almost funny.

"Actually," I said, looking directly at the waiter, "I'll have the lamb vindaloo. Extra spicy. And a bottle of your best scotch."

Angela's head snapped toward me. "You don't like spicy food."

"You're mistaken," I said coolly. "I love it."

Chaney chimed in, annoyed. "Uncle Gio is allergic to lamb. You can't order that."

I just looked at her. "He's not eating it. I am."

The tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a knife. Angela stared at me, her brow furrowed, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Giovanni's smile was strained.

"Where are you getting the money for this, Daddy?" Chaney demanded. "This place is super expensive."

"I'm using my money," I said, my gaze sweeping over Angela. "The money I earned for ten years of service to this family. I've decided to start spending it on myself."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Angela asked, her voice sharp.

"It means I'm done," I said, my voice low and clear. "Done being your support staff. Done putting my life on hold for your ambition. I'm going to live for myself now."

Just then, a waiter carrying a tray of hot soup tripped near our table.

It happened in a split second. The tray tilted, and a tureen of scalding soup slid towards Giovanni.

Without a moment's hesitation, Angela threw herself in front of him, shoving him out of the way. She took the brunt of the hot liquid on her arm, crying out in pain.

The tureen, knocked off course, flew sideways and crashed onto my side of the table. Hot soup splashed across my arm and chest. The pain was searing, immediate. I gasped, a raw sound torn from my throat.

But no one was looking at me.

"Gio! Are you okay?" Angela cried, grabbing his hands, inspecting him frantically.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, shaking her off. "It didn't touch me."

Chaney was screaming. Not for me, her father, who was clutching his burning arm. She ran around the table and, instead of helping me, she shoved me hard.

"You did this!" she shrieked, her face contorted with rage. "You made the waiter trip! You tried to hurt Uncle Gio!"

The push sent me off balance. I fell out of my chair, my injured arm hitting the floor. A fresh explosion of pain shot through me, and I couldn't stifle a groan.

I lay there, on the floor of the fancy restaurant, my arm on fire, and my own family stood over me, their faces filled with accusation.

"Look at what you've done, Alex," Angela said, her voice dripping with disgust. She cradled her own arm, where a red mark was already forming. "You're always causing trouble."

She didn't ask if I was okay. She didn't even look at my injury.

Chaney was sobbing, clinging to Giovanni. "Is your arm okay, Uncle Gio? Does it hurt?"

"I'm alright, sweetie," he said, stroking her hair. He looked down at me, his eyes full of cold satisfaction.

They helped each other up, the three of them, a united front of blame. They didn't offer me a hand. They didn't call for a doctor.

They just left.

They walked out of the restaurant, leaving me on the floor amidst the broken porcelain and the stares of strangers. The pain in my arm was nothing compared to the cold, dead certainty in my heart.

I was utterly, completely alone. And I was finally, irrevocably free.