Chapter 5 - The Weight of a Name
The village was a small collection of weathered shingles and fishing boats, four miles from the house.
To the locals, they were simply "the Morettis from the peninsula," a couple who kept to themselves and bought supplies in cash.
Lorenzo found himself walking the docks, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
He was unrecognizable here—not as a mafia boss, but as a man with graying hair and scars he couldn't hide.
He met the local lobsterman, a man named Elias who didn't care about New York syndicates.
"You look like you're carrying the world on your back, son," Elias said, leaning against his trap shed.
"Just baggage," Lorenzo replied.
"The sea has a way of washing it off," Elias said, tossing a line.
Lorenzo spent the afternoon helping Elias mend nets.
The work was repetitive, mindless, and soothing.
When he returned home, his hands were calloused and smelled of brine.
Vivien was in the kitchen, the smell of roasted root vegetables and herbs filling the room.
She watched him enter, her eyes tracing the change in his posture.
"You smell like the ocean," she noted.
"I think I'm starting to like it here," he said.
May you like
"Good," she replied, handing him a bowl. "Because the past is a tide, Lorenzo. It’s supposed to go out, not come back in."
He nodded, knowing she was watching the horizon for more than just the weather.
