Epilogue Gabriella
Three Months Later…
The freedom hits me anew every time I step onto Prague's cobblestone streets alone.
No Paolo trailing behind me with his hand hovering near his jacket. No carefully planned routes or timed check-ins. Just me, walking through the city that changed everything, with nothing but my own curiosity to guide me.
I pause outside a small café where I used to drink terrible coffee with Carlos and tease him about his questionable life choices.
Through the window, I can see him at our old table, probably telling some unsuspecting backpacker about the dragon tattoo he definitely shouldn't have gotten. Some things never change.
But I have.
Three months ago, I would have gone inside to say hello, maybe spent an hour catching up on hostel gossip and travel stories. Now I smile and keep walking. That life of nomadic wandering and temporary connections feels like someone else's memory.
My phone buzzes. A text from Luca: "How's your walk going? Business calls running long."
"Perfect. Take your time," I text back.
The casual exchange would have been impossible months ago. Back when I was pretending to be Sofia, back when every moment away from his sight felt stolen. Now he trusts me to disappear into Prague for hours and return to him because I want to, not because I have to.
The change happened a few weeks ago when he surprised me with a car of my own. A small blue car in the driveway with my name on the registration. Nothing flashy, nothing that screamed "mafia wife," just reliable transportation and the promise that I could use it whenever I wanted.
The first time I'd driven myself to the market alone, Rosa had watched from the kitchen window like I might never return. But I did return, with groceries and stories about the vendor who'd remembered me from our previous trips together.
"You're different," she'd said, unpacking tomatoes. "Happier."
She was right. I was finally living as myself instead of performing as someone else.
Now I turn down a narrow street that leads toward the gallery district, my steps quickening with anticipation.
Sofia's building comes into view, a converted warehouse with large windows and iron fire escapes that give it an artistic charm.
Nothing like the pristine villa where she grew up, but so much more alive.
I climb three flights of stairs and knock on the door marked with a small hand-painted number seven.
"Gabby?" Sofia's voice comes through the door, cautious but pleased.
"It's me."
The multiple locks I hear being undone make me smile. My sister has learned to be careful, but she's also learned to be independent.
When the door opens, I barely recognize her. Sofia's hair is shorter now, a warm auburn that catches the afternoon light streaming through her windows. She's wearing paint-stained jeans and a loose sweater, and there's a confidence in her posture I've never seen before.
"You look incredible," I tell her, pulling her into a fierce hug.
"You look happy," she says against my shoulder, and I realize she's right.
Her apartment is small but bright, with morning light flooding through windows she's kept bare of curtains. Art supplies cover a makeshift desk, brushes and paints. A Czech-Italian dictionary sits open beside a notebook filled with her careful handwriting.
"You're learning the language," I observe.
"Basic conversational stuff. It helps at the gallery." She gestures toward a tiny kitchen where something that smells like actual food simmers on the stove. "I'm making lunch. Nothing fancy, but it's mine."
The pride in her voice breaks my heart in the best possible way.
"Sofia, this is amazing. You're amazing."
"I wake up every morning and decide what to do with my day," she says, settling onto the small couch. "I choose what to eat, what to wear, whether to work late or read a book or just sit by the window and watch people. Do you know how incredible that feels after twenty-five years?"
I do know. It's the same feeling I get every time I drive my little blue car somewhere without asking permission first.
"I have something for you," I say, pulling a fat envelope from my jacket. "From Luca."
Her face changes, becoming more guarded. "What is it?"
"Money. He wants to help support you financially."
She doesn't even open the envelope. "I can't accept that."
"Sofia, it's not charity. He feels responsible—"
"I'm not his responsibility." Her voice is firm, stronger than I've ever heard it. "I'm finally not anyone's responsibility except my own. That's the whole point."
I study her face, seeing echoes of my own stubbornness reflected there. "You're sure?"
"I make enough at the gallery to afford this place and food and everything I need.
It's not much, but it's mine. I earned it.
" She sets the envelope on the coffee table without opening it.
"I've never earned anything before, Gabby.
I've never had money that came from my own work, my own choices. I can't give that up now."
"He's going to be disappointed. He honestly wanted to help."
"Then tell him the best way to help is to take care of you and let me take care of myself."
A knock at the door interrupts us. Three soft taps, then two more. The pattern we'd agreed on.
"That's him," I say.
Sofia takes a deep breath, smoothing down her sweater. "How do I look?"
"Like someone who doesn't need rescuing."
When she opens the door, Luca fills the frame in his expensive suit and perfectly polished shoes. He looks completely out of place in this bohemian building. His expression is careful, respectful.
"Sofia." He inclines his head slightly. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
"Luca." She steps back to let him enter, and I watch the awkwardness settle between them.
This is the man she was supposed to marry. The man she fled from in terror. The man who's now married to her sister.
Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the situation.
"Please, sit," Sofia says, gesturing toward the small seating area.
Luca perches carefully on the edge of a chair, looking around the apartment with sharp eyes that take in every detail. The art supplies, the modest furniture, the evidence of a life built from nothing.
"You look well," he says finally.
"I am well." Sofia's chin lifts slightly. "Better than I've ever been."
"Good. I’m glad to hear it."
The silence stretches until I can't stand it anymore. "He brought you something," I say, nodding toward the envelope.
Sofia's gaze flicks to it, then back to Luca. "Gabriella told me. I appreciate the gesture, but I can't accept it."
"It's not a small amount," Luca says carefully.
"I don't care how much it is. I'm supporting myself now."
He studies her, reassessing everything he thought he knew about the quiet, frightened woman who was supposed to be his wife.
"You've changed," he observes.
"I've become myself." Sofia meets his gaze steadily. "The woman you were engaged to... she was who I thought I had to be to survive in that world. But she wasn't real."
"And this is real?"
Sofia gestures around the small apartment. "This is me earning money and paying rent and making friends who don't know anything about my family or what I'm supposed to be." She pauses. "Yes, this is real."
Luca nods slowly. "Then I'm glad you ran."
The admission hangs in the air between them.
"Are you?" Sofia asks.
"Yes. Because if you hadn't, I never would have met Gabriella. Not the real Gabriella."
I feel my cheeks warm as both of them look at me.
"And," Luca continues, "you never would have had the chance to discover who you really are. This..." he gestures around the apartment, "this suits you better than anything I could have given you."
"Thank you," Sofia says quietly. "That means more than money ever could."
The tension in the room eases slightly, and I see an opportunity.
"We should eat," I suggest. "Sofia made lunch."
Over simple pasta and salad, the conversation becomes easier.
Sofia tells us about her work at the gallery, about learning to authenticate damaged paintings and the satisfaction of bringing art back to life.
Luca talks about business in careful terms that don't reveal anything dangerous, but Sofia surprises us both by asking direct questions.
"Are you happy?" she asks me when Luca steps out to take a phone call.
"Yes," I say without hesitation. "It's complicated and sometimes terrifying, but yes. I'm happy."
"And he treats you well?"
"He killed a man who threatened me."
Sofia's eyes widen. "Oh, wow."
"He also bought me a car and lets me drive anywhere I want without bodyguards. He's teaching me about the business instead of keeping me ignorant. He listens when I have opinions, even when they're inconvenient." I reach across the small table to squeeze her hand. "He loves me, Sofia."
"I'm glad." Her smile is genuine, relieved. "I was so afraid you'd gotten trapped in my place."
"I chose to stay trapped. That makes all the difference."
When Luca returns, he has something else for Sofia. "Not money," he says quickly when she starts to shake her head. "Something else."
He pulls out a small burner phone. Basic, cheap, the kind you buy with cash and no questions asked.
"Gabriella has one too. Untraceable, secure. So you can stay in touch."
Sofia looks at the phone, then at me. "We already have a way to contact each other."
"I know. But this is better. Safer." Luca's voice is careful. "My family doesn't know about you. As far as they're concerned, Sofia Romano is an only child who married into the family and lives quietly in Rome. That needs to stay true for everyone's protection."
"I understand."
"But Gabriella needs her sister. And I think you need her too."
Sofia nods, accepting the phone. "Thank you. For understanding that."
“Family is important, even when it's complicated."
As the afternoon fades into evening, we make plans.
I'll visit Prague when I can, always with different reasons, different schedules.
Sofia will send updates about her life, her work, the small freedoms she's collecting like treasures.
The phones will stay charged and hidden, our secret line to each other.
"I should go," Luca says finally. "Let you two have some time alone."
"Actually," Sofia says, "I have something to give you too."
She disappears into her bedroom and returns with a small wrapped package. "For your anniversary," she explains, handing it to me. "I know it's early."
Inside is a hand-painted picture frame, simple but beautiful, with two birds in flight. One heading east, one heading west, but both free.
"It's perfect," I breathe.
"I made it at the gallery. For whatever photo you want to put in it."
I hug her tightly. "I love you," I whisper. "And I'm so proud of who you've become."
"I love you too. And I'm so glad you found someone who sees who you really are."
When we finally leave, the sun is setting over Prague's red rooftops. Luca and I walk back toward the hotel district in comfortable silence, my sister's gift tucked carefully in my jacket.
"She's remarkable," he says finally.
"She is. She's become everything she was meant to be."
"Like you."
I stop walking and turn to face him. "Am I?"
"You're exactly who you're meant to be. Wild and fierce and stubborn." He reaches out to touch my face. "And loved."
As we walk through Prague's ancient streets, I think about choices.
About the night I answered Sofia's desperate phone call and decided to save her.
About the morning I put on a wedding dress that wasn't meant for me.
About all the moments since when I could have confessed, could have run, could have chosen the easier path.
And about this afternoon, watching my sister serve lunch in her tiny kitchen with paint under her fingernails and pride in her voice.
Both of us free.
Both of us exactly where we belong.
Both of us finally, truly ourselves.
My phone buzzes. A message from Sofia: "Thank you. For everything. For my life."
I text back: "Thank you for yours."
Because that’s what we gave each other in the end. Not just safety or protection from the lives we didn’t want. We gave each other the freedom to choose the lives we do want. Even when those choices look nothing like what anyone expected.
“Ready to go home?” Luca asks as we reach our hotel.
“Yes,” I say, taking his hand. “I’m ready.”
Because the truth is, the lie didn’t trap us. It set us free. Luca kisses me then, slow and certain, a promise against my lips. And I know.
I will never run again.