Goodbye, Mr. Marchetti Chapter 01

Goodbye, Mr. Marchetti Chapter 01

In the tenth year of my marriage to Vittorio Marchetti, counselor to the Cosa Nostra, I ran into him at the airport.

He’d just come back from a vacation with Sienna Rossi.

I was there to see a client off.

Our eyes met for exactly one second. Then, without a word between us, we both looked away, pretending nothing had happened.

An hour later, Vittorio’s car was waiting for me outside the terminal.

I thanked him politely and got in the back seat.

Halfway home, he pulled over.

“Serena,” he said. “It’s over between me and Sienna. The trip was her idea. A going-away gift, she called it.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I gave him a small, awkward smile.

The truth was, whether or not it was over between them didn’t matter to me anymore.

I had stopped loving him a long time ago.

…

The little sticker with Sienna’s name was still on the dashboard.

In the dim light, what had once felt like a loud declaration of ownership now looked faded, its edges gone yellow at the corners.

My blank reaction made Vittorio frown.

“I was thinking of going to see your family in a few days,” he said. “When are you free?”

I hesitated, then refused on instinct.

“Mom and Dad haven’t been well. It’s better if you don’t come.”

After he’d taken up with Sienna, he’d never gone back to see them. Not once.

Five years had passed.

The moment the words left my mouth, his expression went cold.

My body tensed before I could stop it. I opened my mouth to explain.

He let out a slow breath.

“Fine. Whatever you want.”

He started the car again.

Outside, the snow was coming down harder now, almost blotting out the windshield.

The silence inside the car was suffocating.

I stared at the blur of streetlights passing by and felt strangely disconnected from myself.

We were actually sitting in the same car. Without a single argument. That hadn’t happened in years.

The last time we’d seen each other, we’d been at each other’s throats.

When he turned onto the old neighborhood streets, I snapped back to attention.

He was driving toward the apartment we used to share.

I almost said something. Then I saw his expression and swallowed the words.

In the elevator, Vittorio spoke again.

“How have you been? These past few years?”

I smiled, polite and distant.

“I’ve been fine.”

He didn’t seem satisfied with that answer.

His gaze stayed on me, searching for something.

I turned away and stared at the floor numbers, silently willing the elevator to move faster.

As the doors opened, I thought he said something, but the bell chimed and I lost the words.

He pressed his thumb to the lock. It still worked. For a moment, he almost smiled.

Then the smile disappeared.

Nobody had been here in years.

The air smelled of dust and mildew and something metallic, like rust. It stung my eyes and made me want to cough.

Vittorio reached for the light switch and came back with a handful of grime.

I pulled a tissue from my bag and handed it to him.

“I must have forgotten to pay the electric bill,” I said.

My voice was as flat as if I were haggling over vegetables at a market stall.

He stared at me. “You don’t live here anymore?”

I shook my head, then pulled out my phone and paid the overdue balance.

The lights flickered on.

The place looked exactly as I’d left it five years ago.

Our wedding photo lay shattered on the floor.

Dark stains had soaked into the couch and the mattress.

Every corner of this apartment held some trace of what had happened here.

The worst months of my depression. The night I almost didn’t make it.

Ten years after marrying Vittorio Marchetti, I had walked back into my own nightmare.

It wasn’t as hard as I expected.

Peaceful, even. That word hadn’t belonged to us for a very long time.

Vittorio just stood there, head bowed, staring at the wreckage.

I waited. He didn’t move.

So I turned to leave.

“If you’re staying tonight, call the building manager. They’ll send someone to clean.”

As I passed him, he caught my hand.

“Where are you living now? Let me drive you.”

I flinched like I’d been burned and pulled free.

“No, thank you.”

“My ride’s already downstairs.”

I left.

By the time I got home, my father and brother were already asleep.

My mother was still up, waiting.

“You’re late. Everything okay?”

“Let me heat up your dinner. Go take a shower.”

Hot water ran over my skin, washing the weight of the day off me.

The scar on my wrist ached dully. It always did when the weather turned cold.

When I came out, my mother’s face had gone pale.

I turned around.

He was there.

Vittorio had followed me home.

My father and brother had come out of their rooms. Five years of illness had worn them down; they needed their rest.

Vittorio stood in the middle of our living room like he still owned every inch of it.

“Serena,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”