I still make tiramisu a few times a week, and Nico loves it too. It appears that every Italian man has a soft spot for that dessert; however, every time I make it, I think of Dante. I take my time, soaking the biscuits and placing the ingredients in the large bowl with precision, in the hopes that he will walk in the door and want a serving, and that maybe it will be enough for him to remember what we had.

For days, I moped around the house, wishing I was back with Leo and Maria, wishing that I was back in Dante’s bed, having one of our nightly chats. But I am not. And it is all my fault. I have no one to blame for my situation other than myself. But even though we are no longer together, I am thankful for the time we had, even though I still feel empty.

I spend a lot of time alone in my room, trying to organize my thoughts, and come up with a plan. There will come a time that I leave this place and Nico or one of the other team members will probably drop me off at a bus station to send me on my way. So I have been looking for jobs on my cell phone, the only time I ever look at it, trying to understand what work is available for a woman like me.

A woman with nothing.

No education, no skill-set, no family, no friends. I could wash dishes, but the urge to make something of myself now that I know I can, now that I have no time limit, rumbles in my chest. Dante taught me many things, but the time he devoted to me, the trust he had in me, a stranger in his home, it built my confidence. I want to be more, do more, and not just survive, but flourish.

“What are you dreaming about over there, Annie?” Nico asks me as he looks at me from the kitchen table, his gun now nearly sparkling. Weapons no longer scare me, and Nico has even spent some time showing me his gun and how to operate it. Not that I have ever fired it, nor do I plan to, but it is yet another thing I have learnt in this weird situation I am in.

“What I want to be when I grow up,” I say shyly, grateful that he takes an interest.

“Well, you know you can be anything, right?” He smiles, the polishing cloth in his hand still moving up and down the barrel of his handgun as he wipes the already pristine metal.

“But that is just it,” I say in slight frustration, and put the stress ball back onto the bench. “I don’t know if I can. I have no education, no skills, no people around me to help me. I will be starting from the very bottom.”