It's midnight when we arrive back home in Chicago. Enzo waits at the front door, greeting us as we enter the house while the guards unload our stuff through the garage door.
"Go up first, I'll be right behind you," says Mariano, his hand on my back squeezing me before letting go.
"Okay." I walk up the stairs. It's a good thing too because I need some time for myself. It was an exhausting weekend and I feel so drained. So many things have happened since we arrived in New York. It's like I'm floating, barely reaching the ground, and somewhat afraid to even touch it for fear that I'd slip and fall right into a deep abyss if I'm not too careful.