I inhaled, clinging to the tiny hope it was something trivial—Júlia, maybe, reminding me of something she forgot.
But when I opened the message, my breath locked in my throat.
Unknown number.
And still I knew exactly who it was.
“Tomorrow, 9 a.m., I’m visiting my daughter. Don’t try to stop me, Valentina. If you even think about making this difficult, losing your bakery will be the least of your problems.”
SEVENTEEN
ENRICO FERRARA
At exactly nine o’clock, I parked in front of Valentina’s house.
I took a slow breath as I shut off the engine, forcing myself to prepare for what was about to happen.
I’d faced thousands of tense meetings, impossible negotiations, ruthless adversaries.
None of it compared to the nerves twisting through me now—standing in front of a simple house, about to meet my daughter properly.
My daughter.
The words still sounded strange inside me. Distant. Painful. I was still fighting the constant anger, the indignation that boiled through my veins every time I thought about the time I’d lost with Clara.
Because of Valentina.
But in this specific moment, as I walked up the narrow front path toward the door, I had to put the hatred aside—temporarily.
There was something more important waiting inside.
I knocked firmly and adjusted the cuffs of my jacket like it would somehow make me look more confident than I felt.
Valentina opened almost immediately, as if she’d been standing there waiting. For a brief second, our eyes held.
Her dark eyes were cautious—almost defiant. She looked as tense as I was, but I could see the effort she made to appear calm and controlled.
“Good morning, Enrico,” she said coolly, stepping back to let me in. No smile. No courtesy. Not even the faintest polite touch—just a stiff nod.
Good.
She understood.
“Good morning,” I replied, equally dry as I stepped inside and looked around—something I hadn’t done the previous time, when I’d stormed in fueled by rage.
The house was warm and cared for, full of personal details and small signs that a child lived here. A strange pressure tightened in my chest at the realization of how many basic things about Clara I still didn’t know.
Valentina closed the door behind me and crossed her arms defensively, meeting my gaze with a firmness that almost hid her discomfort.
“Clara doesn’t know who you are,” she said quietly. “I thought it would be better if you told her yourself.”
“I agree,” I said simply, my voice sounding harsher than I intended. “It should come from me.”
She nodded, looked away for a moment, then met my eyes again with intensity.
“I need you to understand something, Enrico,” she said, low and serious. “Whatever is between us, my only concern is Clara’s well-being. If you say or do anything that could hurt her—”
“I didn’t come here to hurt my daughter,” I cut in immediately, irritated she thought so little of me.
