Out of courtesy to our long acquaintance—omertà of a different kind, the silence of old ties—I pulled out my phone and sent him a message asking when he'd be back.
His reply came almost instantly. A voice message.
I pressed play, and Celina's honeyed voice poured through the speaker.
"Elena, Luca's helping me with the wiring. This place hasn't been lived in for a while, so there's quite a bit to sort out. You should head home—don't let us hold you up!"
I was about to close the app and call for a car when another message arrived.
"Oh, and Elena? Don't overthink things. Luca's just being kind. He feels sorry for me, being alone in such a big city."
Alone. In a city where she'd positioned herself precisely where she wanted to be.
The memory of my own parents—who had left years ago, who had finally called me home—rose unbidden. I typed a brief acknowledgment and closed the chat.
In the back of the hired car, I stared out the window at the passing streets, my thoughts scattered like ash, when Luca's call came through.
"Elena, why were you so cold to Celina?" His voice carried that particular edge—the one he used when he wanted to sound reasonable while making clear he was anything but. "She's one of my people. I was just helping her find a place. The organization hasn't arranged housing yet—is it so wrong for me to step in?"
A pause, then his tone sharpened further.
"When did you become like this? At the birthday gathering, you were sulking the whole time, saying you felt unwell and wanted to leave. I didn't say a word about it, and now you're picking fights?"
Through the phone, I could hear Celina's soft, wounded sniffling—a performance pitched perfectly for her audience of one.
The woman weeping in Luca's presence bore no resemblance to the one who had just sent me those messages, all sugar-coated thorns.
I drew a slow breath, finally understanding her game with perfect clarity. But exhaustion had hollowed me out, leaving no room for defense or explanation.
"You're right," I said quietly. "It's my fault. I was only asking. Don't worry—I'm already home. I didn't wait for you."
The line went dead in my hand, and I watched the city lights blur past the window like dying stars.
Luca's question died in his throat, strangled by the frost in my voice. The moment the black sedan rolled to a stop before the apartment tower—his tower, never mine—I ended the call without ceremony.