MOORED TO AN OUTLAW

7: Fog on the Edge

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."
—Albert Camus

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I'll tell you what freedom felt like.

The air was the same. The ground felt no different. The people around me were just as unwelcoming. The buildings were no larger. But everything was changed, different, and for the first time, I understood what rebellion truly was. It wasn't twelve-year-old me hurling Cosimo's phone into the pool and receiving a smack in the face. It wasn't fourteen-year-old me talking back to my father and being told that was a death sentence. It wasn't nineteen-year-old me experimenting with masturbation and judging myself for it. It wasn't my first kiss as an act of defiance and having my fling thrown into a bottomless hole.

It was this.

It was knowing that if I wanted to curse into the night right here on this street, no one would reprimand me. It was knowing I could still leave my shoes unlaced without getting a smack on the back of my head. It was knowing I could choose how to style my hair and not be dictated to. It was knowing if I wanted to eat just brownies I'd not be reminded of the calories. Knowing I was no longer confined by the rules of submissive women or the fists of monstrous men.

It was, above all, the realization that I was just Alessandra—not Sessie, not a Benedetti. Free from that curse.

Wiping my eyes to dry off the trailing tears, I stopped at the nearest ATM, pulled out enough cash to get by. My first instinct was to dive into the closest bar, drink until I couldn't feel my legs, just like Nico or Cosimo would explain a drunken stupor. I was tempted to try everything all at once. But standing in the middle of the neon-lit street, I had no clue where to start.

My phone buzzed again. "Remo" flashed on the screen. Without a second thought, I blocked him and deleted his number. Vi had been blocked, along with Mamma, Cosimo, Nico, even Zee. With each call, I was reminded of their existence, and with each one, I made the choice to erase and forget.

Vi was the one person whose number I couldn't bring myself to delete. One day, I'd want to call her up and tell her about a guy I met, a man who sipped coffee instead of whiskey, held newspapers instead of pistols, and talked about vacations in Greece rather than chopping off heads. I'd want to tell her I'd found someone decent, caring, and smart. I'd want her to meet him too. If I could, I'd try to save her, in case they ever decided she should take my place with Tiziano.

But until then, I had to keep my distance, not drag her into my rebellion.

I didn't expect the night to be this alive, but it worked in my favor. I could slip into the crowd unnoticed, safe from being abducted or found. Frankly, I could just blend in without fear of being seeing.

Downtown Chicago was neutral ground for most of the gangs, which made me wary that one of my father's enemies might recognize me and come collecting their pound of flesh. That's why I was grateful for the crowded streets.

Someone bumped into me from behind, stumbling ahead in a drunken daze. I held back from calling him a douche, just hissing under my breath. I kept moving, understanding it was the part of the cons of being without my bodyguards or my brothers. Of being a total stranger in my own city.

When my phone rang again, it was Father—then an unsaved number, then Tiziano. That was it. I took out my left earring, popped the SIM tray, and threw the damn thing away. I didn't stop at that; I wiped every trace from the device, anything at that could ever stir up nostalgia. From pictures to messages to call logs.