For now, I let myself exist in the present—even though that devil has lived in the back of my mind for weeks. I let us float through this moment as a happy, normal family.
I’ve learned that happiness in my world is fragile. It fades faster than you expect.
And little did I know… time was running out.
28
BEATRICE
Afew days later…
I step outsideinto the late morning light, the breeze catching the edge of my coat and fluttering it like a whisper.
Valerio stands by the car in his usual black, posture sharp, sunglasses hiding everything except that relentless stillness. I swear the man does nothing but brood. I don’t think he has any other emotion.
“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. The great Valerio has been summoned,” I tease as I walk toward him.
Over the years we’ve become good friends, at least from my side.
“I thought I was getting a driver today.”
He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth shifts. “You are. He’s just very well-armed and annoyingly handsome.”
He steps forward and kisses both my cheeks in greeting. I catch the faint scent of spice on him, mixed with jasmine and vanilla.
When I pull back, I give him a look. “I didn’t know you were a fan of vanilla.”
One side of his mouth tilts upward. “It’s all the rage in Paris, apparently.”
We both know exactly what that means—the scent of a woman. What else can you expect from Valerio? Manhattan’s resident Casanova.
“What?” he says, shrugging. “Don’t give me that look,principessa. She was from Paris.”
“Charming. You do know there will come a time when you have to say goodbye to your Casanova ways and settle down, right?”
He rolls his neck, joints clicking. “Hell would have to freeze over before I commit to a woman. And besides, there isn’t a single one I want.”
I move past him toward the car door. “I find that hard to believe. There are billions of women in this world. You’re telling me not one has caught your eye? Not one has captured your attention?”
I glance over my shoulder—and he’s staring at me. Really staring. With the kind of piercing precision all these mafia men carry.
“No, not one,” he says lowly.
He steps forward and opens the door for me to get in. “Let’s go, Beatrice.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but I don’t press. Valerio is not exactly theopen up and spill your hearttype. I step forward—until his hand darts out, fingers curling gently around my elbow.
“Wait.”
He pulls out a small journal—leather-bound, deep burgundy, elegant and understated. My initials,B.D., are embroidered along the spine in gold thread. It’s beautiful.
“I remembered you said you used to write at night to get your thoughts out,” he says. “Figured you might want to start again. Happy belated birthday,principessa.”
I blink, caught off guard. “You got me a gift?”
He scoffs. “Don’t look so shocked, Bea. I’m not a total heartless troll who can’t be nice.”
“Thank you. That’s… really thoughtful.” I run my fingertips along the leather, feeling the grain, the weight, the care behind it.
