Quiet Revenge

Revenge doesn’t announce itself. It waits. The night Luca and I walked out of

prison, rain slicked the concrete like it was trying to wash us away.

Cameras didn’t follow. No crowds waited. Freedom was quiet—too quiet. That’s how you know

it isn’t a gift. Luca cracked his knuckles and looked up at the sky like he expected it to

fall. “First thing we do?” he asked. I smiled. Not because I was

happy—because I was ready. “Nothing,” I said. “Yet.” Moretti didn’t know

we were free. That was the point. He was living large now. Charities.

Interviews. Smiling beside politicians who would’ve crossed the street to avoid him ten years ago.