Chapter 2
The plane door seals shut with a soft hiss, and my entire body vibrates with anticipation. Twenty-three years of being the protected Rosetti doll ends the moment these engines start.
My phone buzzes—Dom's name flashing on the screen. I stare at it for a heartbeat, thumb hovering over the answer button, before switching it off completely. The silence that follows feels monumental.
"Miss Rosetti?" The flight attendant appears with that practiced smile they all wear. "Can I get you anything for the flight?"
"Just some sparkling water, thank you." My voice comes out steadier than expected, though I'm probably grinning like an idiot. This is the last time anyone will call me Miss Rosetti and mean the protected princess. After today, I'll just be Carmela, whoever that turns out to be.
The leather seat feels like silk beneath my hands as I settle back, a melody bubbling up from my chest. I'm actually humming—literally humming—as the engines spool up for departure.
The crew must think I'm insane, but who cares?
Freedom tastes like champagne bubbles, and I'm intoxicated by possibility.
"You seem excited about Chicago," the attendant observes, setting down my water.
"Oh, I am! The art scene there is incredible—so much emerging talent in River North.
Have you ever been to the Palette & Frame exhibit?
" My hands move as I talk, animated by genuine passion.
"They're showcasing this brilliant sculptor who works exclusively with reclaimed materials.
His pieces about urban decay and renewal are just—" I catch myself mid-ramble and laugh. "Sorry, I get carried away about art."
What she doesn't know is that every word is research for my new life. Every gallery I've mentioned, I've already contacted. Every artist connection, carefully cultivated over months of planning.
Manhattan disappears below us, and my escape plan crystallizes one final time.
Use the art world connections to slip away at O'Hare.
Disappear into the crowds before this Van person Dom mentioned can corner me.
Get to my tiny apartment in Wicker Park—not the luxury penthouse Dom arranged, but the cramped studio I found myself through a dealer friend.
For the first time in my life, no one will know where I'm going except me.
O'Hare's crowds swallow me whole, exactly as planned. I weave through the terminal, every sense heightened with nervous energy. Near baggage claim, I spot my target: Rebecca Novak, the gallery owner I've been cultivating for months.
"Rebecca!" I call out, approaching with arms open. "What a wonderful surprise!"
Her face lights up. "Carmela! What brings you to Chicago?"
"Actually," I lean in conspiratorially, "I'm moving here. Starting fresh." The truth fizzes on my tongue like prosecco. "I've been following the River North district for months. The emerging artists there are doing revolutionary work."
"You know their work?" Rebecca's eyes sparkle. "Are you familiar with the contemporary Italian exhibition opening next week?"
"The Moretti collection? I've been studying his evolution from classical techniques to abstract expressionism.
" I fall into step beside her entourage, noting expensive suits moving through the crowds nearby.
But this is O'Hare—designer clothing is practically the uniform.
"His use of negative space in the later pieces completely redefines traditional composition. "
"You absolutely must come to the preview," Rebecca continues as we walk. "I know several collectors who would love to meet someone with your expertise."
"I'd be honored."
We reach the taxi stand, and I wave goodbye to Rebecca's group.
The cab ride to Wicker Park passes in a blur of city lights and anticipation.
Outside the window, a dark sedan maintains the same distance behind us for three turns, but Chicago traffic is full of black cars going the same direction.
I'm seeing patterns where none exist—classic Rosetti paranoia.
The studio apartment in Wicker Park is gloriously cramped. I trail my fingers over secondhand furniture and mismatched dishes like they're Venetian glass.
"This is mine," I announce to the empty room, then laugh at myself. But it's true—every square foot belongs to me alone. I chose the chipped coffee mug. I decided on the threadbare couch. These tiny decisions feel revolutionary after a lifetime of curated perfection.
I spin in the center of the room, arms outstretched. The Rosetti mansion has thirty-seven rooms, but this studio feels infinite because it's actually mine.
When darkness falls and silence fills my tiny kingdom, something unexpected creeps in. I've never been truly alone before—no family voices filtering through walls, no constant hum of presence. The quiet presses against my eardrums like water.
I shake off the feeling. Tomorrow I'll build connections I choose, not ones assigned by blood.
My phone buzzes with missed calls—Dom, Dad, probably that Van person. I silence it without listening to the voicemails. Tonight belongs to me.
The next afternoon, I arrive at the River North gallery fifteen minutes early, portfolio tucked under my arm. Through the glass doors, I can see two people inside—Rebecca, who recommended me, and a man whose crossed arms and skeptical expression suggest he's less than thrilled about this interview.
"Carmela!" Rebecca greets me warmly. "This is Omar Saleh, our senior gallery manager. Omar, this is the young woman I told you about."
Omar Saleh looks like he's been personally offended by the concept of happiness. Mid-forties, wearing all black, with the kind of carefully maintained scowl that suggests he practices it in mirrors. He gives me a once-over that clearly says "nepotism hire."
"Another collector's daughter who thinks she understands art?" His voice could freeze champagne. "How refreshing."
Rebecca shoots him a warning look, but I actually laugh—a bright, genuine sound that seems to startle him.
"Oh, you're absolutely right to be skeptical!" I say, setting my portfolio on the pristine glass desk. "I'm sure you get tons of trust fund babies who think knowing which fork to use at a gallery opening qualifies them to work here."
Omar blinks, clearly not expecting agreement.
"But here's the thing," I continue, pulling out my documentation.
"I wrote my thesis on the intersection of trauma and beauty in post-war Italian sculpture.
I've been corresponding with Alessandro Moretti about his upcoming exhibition for six months—in Italian, which I'm fluent in.
And I can tell you're standing in front of the Brennan piece specifically because you don't want me to notice the water damage in the corner that you haven't had restored yet. "
Both their heads whip toward the painting behind Omar. There is, indeed, a tiny area of bubbling in the lower left corner.
"How did you—" Omar starts.
"The way the light hits it from this angle.
Plus, you've positioned that sculpture to draw the eye away.
" I move closer to the painting, my excitement genuine.
"It's from his blue period, right? 2018?
The water damage actually adds interesting texture to the piece—almost like the artist's commentary on impermanence. "
Omar's scowl softens by exactly one degree. "You think damage adds value?"
"I think art isn't static. It lives, breathes, changes.
Sometimes what we call damage is just the piece continuing its conversation with the world.
" I turn back to him, unable to contain my enthusiasm.
"Like the Venus de Milo—would she be as powerful with arms?
Or is her damage part of what makes her eternal? "
"That's… actually not a terrible point." Omar sounds physically pained to admit it.
"Omar has been with us for fifteen years," Rebecca interjects. "He has exacting standards."
"Good!" I say brightly. "I'd rather work for someone who cares too much than too little. Even if you do look like someone forced you to eat swords for breakfast."
The comment escapes before I can stop it—the kind of thing that would horrify my mother. But Omar's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
"I don't eat breakfast," he says flatly. "Happiness before noon is suspicious."
"Then you'll love this," I say, pulling out my phone.
"I've been cataloging the progression of natural light through the gallery space at different times of day.
Look—at 3 PM, the western light hits the Castellano installation in a way that completely transforms the shadows.
But at 10 AM, it's the Nakamura watercolors that come alive. "
Omar takes my phone, scrolling through dozens of timestamped photos. His eyebrows climb incrementally higher.
"You've been stalking our gallery?"
"Studying," I correct cheerfully. "There's a thirteen-minute window around sunset where the light is absolutely perfect for viewing the bronze sculptures. I was thinking we could schedule private viewings then—charge a premium for 'golden hour exhibitions.'"
"That's…" Omar pauses, visibly wrestling with himself. "Actually brilliant."
"See?" Rebecca says smugly. "I told you she was special."
Omar hands back my phone with the air of someone surrendering. "Fine. You can start tomorrow. But I don't tolerate tardiness, excessive cheerfulness before coffee, or anyone who says 'vibes' unironically."
"Deal!" I practically bounce. "Though I should warn you, I hum when I'm happy. It's involuntary."
"Of course you do." Omar sighs deeply, but I catch him exchanging a look with Rebecca that might almost be approval. "Try to keep it to jazz standards. None of that pop nonsense."
"I make no promises," I say, grinning. "But I'll bring you coffee. Black, no sugar, probably in a mug that says something pessimistic about life?"
"How did you—"
"Lucky guess." I wink at Rebecca. "Grumpy people are predictable. It's what makes them so endearing."
Omar mutters something that sounds like "I'm not endearing," but he's already pulling out new-hire paperwork.
I practically float out of the gallery, employed and elated. The job is mine—earned through knowledge and charm, not connections. The afternoon sun warms my face as I head toward the grocery store, ready to celebrate with my first self-shopped meal.
The supermarket is overwhelming in the best way. I've been in stores before, obviously, but never alone, never making every choice myself. I grab a cart and wander the aisles like they're galleries, each shelf a revelation.
"Twelve types of pasta sauce," I murmur in wonder, reading labels like they're poetry. "How does anyone choose?"
"You look lost, honey."
The voice belongs to a store employee whose name tag reads "Rick" and whose expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else. He's approximately a thousand years old, with the kind of permanent frown that's etched into his DNA.
"Oh, I'm not lost!" I beam at him. "I'm just amazed. Do you know how incredible this is? I can buy any sauce I want. Any pasta shape. I could have linguine with arrabiata or penne with vodka sauce or—"
"It's pasta, not the Sistine Chapel," Rick interrupts, already shuffling away.
I follow him, pushing my cart alongside his restocking trolley. "But that's the thing! Michelangelo had to paint what the Pope commissioned. I can choose my own dinner. That's its own kind of art, don't you think?"
Rick stops, turns, and stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Are you on drugs?"
"No! Just excited about groceries."
"Nobody's excited about groceries."
"I am!" I grab a box of cereal with cartoon characters on it—the kind my nutritionist would have fainted over. "I've never picked my own cereal before. This one has marshmallows. Marshmallows, Rick!"
Despite himself, Rick's permanent frown softens slightly. "You never picked cereal before? What are you, royalty?"
"Something like that," I admit, then quickly add, "But I'm retired. Now I'm just Carmela who needs help finding normal people groceries."
Rick sighs—a deep, world-weary sound that suggests he's reconsidering all his life choices. "Fine. Rule one: generic brand pasta is identical to the fancy stuff. Save your money."
"Really?"
"Would I lie about pasta?" He starts shuffling down the aisle, apparently resigned to his fate. "Rule two: never shop hungry. You'll buy stupid things."
"Like marshmallow cereal?"
"Exactly."
For the next twenty minutes, Rick grudgingly teaches me grocery shopping while I pepper him with questions and enthusiasm. He shows me how to check expiration dates, find the best produce, and navigate sales.
"This is the most anyone's ever talked to me during a shift," he grumbles, but when I insist on taking a selfie with him, he almost—almost—cracks a smile.
"You're not terrible," he concedes as I head to checkout. "For someone who gets excited about pasta sauce."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day!"
"That's sad."
"No," I say, grinning as I load my generic pasta onto the belt. "It's perfect."
I emerge from the store with two bags of groceries I chose myself, employed at a job I earned myself, living in an apartment I found myself. The evening sun casts long shadows on the sidewalk, and I'm humming something jazzy for Omar's theoretical approval.
That's when I notice him again.
The same man from yesterday, or someone remarkably similar. Leaning against a building across the street, ostensibly scrolling his phone. But there's something about his posture—too still, too aware. When I shift my grocery bags, his eyes flick up for just a second before returning to his screen.
My stomach flutters with old warnings, but I push them down. Chicago's a big city, but neighborhoods are small. People shop at the same stores, walk the same routes. I'm being paranoid.
Still, I take a different path home, weaving through side streets just to prove to myself that I'm imagining things. By the time I reach my building, I've almost convinced myself.
Inside my studio, I unpack my groceries with reverent care. Generic pasta, store-brand sauce, cereal with marshmallows, milk that I chose based on Rick's grumpy recommendation. It's a feast of ordinary choices, and I've never been happier.
Tomorrow I'll start at the gallery. Omar will scowl at my humming. I'll charm him with coffee and competence. Life will be beautifully, wonderfully normal.
The freedom is intoxicating.
Even if shadows seem to follow me home.