“How long will he get?” I asked.

“With the racketeering charges and the tax evasion, he will look at thirty years,” Damiano said. “He is fifty-two. He will die in a federal penitentiary.”

I took a sip of the warm tea, letting the liquid soothe my dry throat.

The tightness in my chest, the knot that had been there for two years, finally began to loosen.

“Is it really over?” I asked, looking up at him.

“It is,” Damiano said. “His assets will be frozen by tomorrow afternoon. He will not have the funds to pay for his defense, let alone hire people to find you.”

He walked over to the desk, picked up a small manila envelope, and brought it to me.

“This is for you,” he said, placing it on the table beside my tea.

I picked up the envelope and opened the flap.

Inside was a new passport, a driver’s license with my picture but a different name, and a set of keys.

“Your new identity is clean,” Damiano said. “There is an apartment in Chicago waiting for you, leased under this name for the next two years.”