As I turned the corner of Massachusetts Avenue, the quiet purr of a heavy engine slowed beside the curb behind me.
The black Maybach was following twenty paces back, its high beams dimmed to parking lights, keeping silent vigil over my path.
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I stopped beneath the awning of an old bookstore, turning around to face the dark limousine in the rain.
The rear window lowered two inches, and through the tinted glass, I saw the pale, shadowed outline of Vincent Moretti watching me.
He did not step out, he did not call my name, and he did not attempt to cross the pavement to touch my life again.
He was simply a sentinel in the dark, watching the woman he had lost eighteen years ago walk freely through the rain.
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I looked at him for five long seconds, feeling neither hatred nor vengeance, only the quiet, profound closure of a long war won.
