“No,” I said, quiet and cutting. “Dreamland is part of this. When I’m finished, there won’t be anything left of Valentina—nor the pathetic resistance she’s built. Then Dreamland can finally move forward without obstacles.”
André hesitated, uncomfortable. He stepped closer and braced his hands on the desk.
“And Nonna—”
“She’ll understand,” I said flatly. “And she’ll accept it. Clara is her great-granddaughter as much as she is my daughter.”
André let out another long breath.
I looked down at the photographs again, my chest tightening with something raw I refused to name.
My daughter. My little girl.
Because of Valentina, I had missed everything—pregnancy, the first ultrasound, the first smile, the first words, the first steps. Five full years I would never get back. Moments stolen from me by lies and betrayal.
I inhaled again, feeling rage grow sharper, feeding me, making me merciless.
If Valentina thought I’d been cruel before, she had no idea what was coming.
I would destroy everything she loved.
Her bakery. Her fake sense of safety in that insignificant town. Her pathetic little resistance against Dreamland.
But above all…
I would take from her the only treasure that actually mattered.
Clara would be mine.
And Valentina would pay for every second she stole from both of us.
Yes—this was a promise.
And I had never failed to keep my promises.
“Enrico…” André began carefully, warning threaded through his voice. “Are you absolutely sure you want to go down this road? Some things… you can’t undo.”
I stared at him for a long moment, my gaze hard as steel. I knew exactly what he meant.
But all I felt was the crushing weight of everything I had already lost because of that woman.
And that was something I would never forgive.
“The only thing I don’t have anymore, André,” I said, rotating the whiskey glass slowly in my hand, “is time to waste.”
My voice went colder.
“So let’s begin.”
SIXTEEN
VALENTINA MUNIZ
The bakery was fuller than I’d ever seen it.
Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the windows in warm gold, illuminating old photographs, yellowed newspaper clippings, and personal objects carefully arranged across the tables. The comforting scent of fresh coffee and newly baked pastries created a strange contrast with the urgency of why we were gathered.
“Put the oldest photos on the center table, please,” I instructed, pointing to a spot already crowded with decades of memories captured in images, letters, and handwritten accounts. “The more recent ones and the official documents stay here with me.”
