Libreria Fioretta

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE

Three days later

I didn’t see Dante for the past three days.

Not that I was waiting.

Not that I ever asked where he went.

Malcolm handed me the deed this morning. Two floors. Fully processed. Fully mine. It came with a blank stare and the usual polite distance.

He never asked why I smiled when I took it.

Luca drove me to the bookstore. He didn’t say much the entire ride, just glanced at me in the mirror every now and then like he was still trying to figure out if he should talk or stay quiet.

The street was quieter than I imagined. Fewer people. Fewer cars. That was good. I didn’t want noise.

The building looked… old. Simple.

Red brick, faded and chipped. The left wall was half-covered in green vines. The windows were smudged, cracked in some corners. One had a missing pane altogether. A crooked hanging sign read Via 18, likely from the previous tenant.

It was perfect.

Luca parked across the street, stepped out first, and circled around to open the door for me. He always did that now. Like clockwork.

When I stepped out, I stared at the building for a long moment. Then smiled.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Luca said carefully, looking between the bricks and the windows.

“It’s everything,” I said.

He blinked, unsure how to respond.

We walked up to the door. It creaked open with a rough push. The inside smelled like dust, maybe old leather. The air was still. Quiet.

Sunlight filtered through the grime-stained glass, landing on warped wood floors and empty shelves. One of the corner panels had water damage. There were nails on the walls where frames used to be. Dead bulbs hung from the ceiling.

But in my head?

There was already color.

Soft cream walls. Floating wooden shelves. A thick, dark rug in the middle of the room. Small couches. Round tables with mismatched chairs. A nook by the far window with floor cushions and warm light for reading.

A counter on the right, solid wood, polished to a shine. Maybe a small display case for special editions.

I let out a breath. “I want a hanging bell on the door,” I said. “Something that rings every time someone walks in.”

Luca looked around again, visibly confused.

“You sure you don’t want to tear it down?” he asked. “We could build something cleaner. Bigger. Modern. Something that actually says Lucchese.”

I turned to him. Smiling still. Calm.

“No,” I said. “I want it to stay like this.”

“This place needs work.”

“I’ll polish it. Not erase it.”

Luca looked like he wanted to protest again. But instead, he stepped further in and started checking the ceiling support beams like he didn’t want to argue with me directly.

We climbed the stairs.

Second floor was tighter. Low ceiling. The floors creaked. The windows barely opened. But I could already see it.

One room. Neutral walls. A bed by the window.

Small kitchen on the left. Narrow stove. Just enough counter space.

Tiny living space in the center, nothing fancy. Just something soft to sit on. Something quiet.

The bathroom needed more help than the rest, but there was a tub. Old-fashioned. Cast iron. It just needed scrubbing. New piping. Warm light.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Luca said behind me.

“What did you expect?”

He shrugged. “Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. A fireplace, maybe.”

“I don’t need all that,” I said softly, running my fingers along the dusty windowsill. “I need this.”

Luca stared at me a moment longer. I knew what he saw—someone who didn’t fit the house she lived in. Someone softer. Gentler. A woman in a dress too simple for the name she carried.

“I’ll get someone to start the cleanup,” he said finally, still frowning. “But I’m calling my guys. Not Lucchese men. If Don Dante sees this-”

“He won’t.”

Luca blinked.

I smiled. “He’s busy. He won’t mind.”

He didn’t answer, just nodded and made a call.

I took one last look around the space, heart quiet.

Not racing.

Not aching.

Just… content.

This wasn’t a palace. Wasn’t a fortress. But it was mine.

Not to hide.

To breathe.

And when Luca stepped out onto the balcony to check the exterior, I stayed behind, standing in the middle of the dusty floor, visualizing it all again.

Books.

Silence.

Soft couches.

A locked door.

A key in my hand.

A place no one could take.

And a name that didn’t have to be spoken.

I looked around one last time. Dust still in the air, floorboards creaking under my weight, but the space already felt like home.

In my head, the sign was already changed.

La Libertà.

Not loud. Not gilded.

Just two simple words etched on wood.

Freedom. In Italian.

But softer. Feminine. Gentle.

A whisper instead of a scream.

The kind of name people wouldn’t question.

But I would know what it meant.

A place where I didn’t belong to anyone.

Not even him.

Where I could finally exist without watching my every move.

Where Catalina,

not the Don’s wife,

could simply… breathe.

La Libertà.

Yes.

That would be its name.

And no one needed to know what it really meant.

Except me.