Six months after our release, I opened my restaurant.
Nothing fancy. A small Italian place in Westchester. Twenty tables. Simple menu. Fresh ingredients. Food made with care.
I called it "Sofia's" after my daughter, but also after the girl I'd been. The one sold at auction. The one who'd survived everything.
Both of them deserved to be remembered.
Dante helped run it. Managing the books. Greeting customers. Being the charming host while I hid in the kitchen and cooked.
It was everything the Commission wasn't. Small. Honest. Built on talent instead of fear. Legal instead of criminal.
It was enough.
Rosa continued running what remained of the Commission. She'd transformed it into something almost unrecognizable fewer illegal operations, more legitimate businesses, actual community investment instead of just exploitation.
"You would be proud," she told me during one of our weekly dinners. "We're not what we were. But we're something better. Something sustainable."
