His eyes brightened. "Jewelry design?"
"Yeah." My voice gained energy. "I don't have formal training, but... I think I can do it. Remember those handmade cards I made in high school? They all sold out. I think I've got a knack for this."
Marco looked at me, his eyes holding a softness I couldn't quite place. "Of course you do. Elena, your sense of style has always been unique."
My cheeks warmed—it was a huge compliment.
"You'll need tools and materials," he said, already thinking ahead. "There's a craft shop in town. We can go there. And once you have samples, I know some shop owners—I can help promote them."
"Really?" I hadn't known about his connections.
"Absolutely." He reached out, gently touching my hair.
The gesture felt natural, but it was more intimate than something between siblings. His hand lingered a bit too long, his gaze too warm.
"Thanks," I murmured, looking away.
He withdrew his hand slowly. "Let's have breakfast first. Then this afternoon, we'll get the materials."
By three p.m., we were in the craft store in the Tuscany town, picking up pliers, scissors, engraving knives, rolls of silver wire in different gauges, and an assortment of colorful beads.
Marco got called back to the hospital for anemergency, so I returned to the apartment alone and spread everything out on the small table. The wire gleamed softly in the afternoon sun; the beads looked as tempting as candy.
I sat down, my fingers curling around a thin strand of silver. It was soft, pliable—waiting to be shaped. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. Then I began to weave. I didn't have a plan; I just followed instinct, something deep in my soul. The wire twisted, looped, and intertwined between my fingers. Gradually, a shape emerged.
A small, delicate ring.
Time seemed to stand still; it was just me and the wire. The bracelet took form—the pattern intricate and symmetrical, like ancient runes. I embedded a tiny blue bead in the center.
I set the tools down and examined it closely. It was beautiful—far better than I'd expected.
"Missing something," I thought.
I picked up the engraving knife and carefully etched letters on the inside: Stella.
I gazed at the little bracelet, Stella's name shimmering on the silver surface. A smile tugged at my lips. I grabbed another strand of wire, my fingers already moving, my mind racing to the next piece. Maybe a necklace? Or a pair of earrings?
It didn't matter. I had something to do now. I could create with this skill, earn money, and work toward a future for me and Stella. God willing, I'd be a good person—and a damn great mother.
Chapter Ten
Igor
"Igor Vorontsov, what the fuck are you saying?!"
Alexander shot up from the sofa, veins bulging in his neck, his whiskey glass nearly slipping from his grip.
In the estate's living room, March afternoon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting patterns on the Persian rug. This should have been a relaxed afternoon tea—two families discussing final wedding details, sampling the chef's Russian pastries. But my words had frozen the warm atmosphere solid.
"I made myself clear." I leaned back on the sofa. "This engagement is off. As of now, my engagement to Natasha Ivanova is officially canceled."
"You've lost your mind!" Natasha shrieked. "We're getting married in a month! The venue's booked! And now you want to cancel?"
"The wedding's canceled. I'll cover all deposits in full." My tone was as calm as discussing the weather.
"You think I need your money?" Natasha's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "I want to be the Bratva Don's wife! I want to stand beside you!"
Natasha's mother gracefully set down her teacup. Her voiceremained calm, but her eyes were razor-sharp. "Igor, I think you need to consider what you're saying. Do you understand how long our families have prepared for this wedding?"
