Alessandra POV
I'd been sitting in the police station for hours before Jane told me it was time to go. They'd finished all the paperwork — the questions, the signatures, the "I'm sorry for your loss." By then, I was too tired to even nod.
On the way to the airport, we stopped by the small house I'd lived in for the past few years — the one that never felt like home. Jane waited outside while I packed. It didn't take long. Everything I owned fit into one worn backpack: a few tops, two hoodies, two pairs of jeans, a pair of sweatpants, my certificates, and some undergarments. That was it. My whole life, zipped up in faded fabric.
Before walking out, I slipped two painkillers into my mouth. The bruises along my ribs are painful and back feels like it is on fire from all the beating my mother and her husband gave me that morning. I couldn't bring the pills with me — I didn't want to explain them. I didn't want to explain anything.
Jane looked at me with that soft, careful expression people use when they think you're fragile. "Do you want to say goodbye to anyone?" she asked. I nodded.
She drove me across town, to the gym where Matt lived. He was the only person who ever looked at me and saw me — not a burden, not a problem to fix. He'd found me once, wandering half-starved on the roadside, and taught me how to defend myself. How to stand straight again. When I told him I was leaving, he just hugged me and said, "You finally get a chance, kid. Don't waste it." I nodded, even though I didn't know what to say.
By the time we boarded the flight, it was nearly 4 a.m. My eyes burned, and my body felt like it was made of stone. I slept most of the way, dreamless and heavy.
***
When we landed in Milan, the air felt colder — sharper somehow. I followed Jane through the terminal, my backpack clutched tight, head down. She told me my father would be waiting for us, that he was "an influential man." I didn't know what that meant, and I didn't care.
But when I stepped through the sliding doors and saw him, I froze. He wasn't what I expected — not some stranger with kind eyes, not a shadow of a man either. He stood tall, dressed in black, every line of his body controlled. But his eyes… For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The man beside him — older than me, maybe early-twenties — gave a small smile. He looked kind in a quiet way. Jane did the introductions.
"Mr. La Rosa, this is your daughter, Alessandra Knight. Alessandra, this is your father and your brother, Emilio."
My father stepped forward, his expression unreadable. I could feel the weight of his gaze — sharp, searching — like he was trying to find something he'd lost a long time ago. Jane started explaining, like she always did.
"She doesn't speak. We believe she's mute, possibly due to trauma." He looked at her, then back at me. "Mute?" he repeated softly, like the word hurt.
I didn't correct her. I never did. It was easier this way — silence was safer.
When he came closer, I stiffened but didn't step back. He stopped just in front of me, close enough for me to see the lines around his eyes. He reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his touch trembling ever so slightly.
"Principessa," he whispered, voice raw.
"I'm your father." I didn't move. Didn't speak. But something inside me shifted — a small, fragile warmth in the place I thought was gone. I nodded once. He exhaled, almost in relief, and said quietly,
"Let's go home." I followed him to the car without a word. Jane trailed behind, explaining something about a house inspection, but I barely heard her.
Through the tinted window, I watched Milan pass by — unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar faces. Somewhere deep down, a single thought echoed, soft but certain:
This isn't home yet. But maybe it could be.