I cupped her chin, tilting her face up to meet my eyes. “I’ll be back soon, Mia Moglie. I promise. And I’ll make up for my absence.”
She tried to smile. “Okay.”
I kissed her forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then I turned and walked toward the study, where my phone had been buzzing insistently for the last ten minutes.
I answered with a snarl. “What?”
“Lorenzo.” My father’s voice was ice. “I heard you took the jet to Italy with that wife of yours.”
“She has a name, Father.”
“I don’t care what her name is. We have business to discuss. The Gualtieri deal?—”
“It can wait.”
“It cannot. Since you are out gallivanting in Italy, I have arranged a meeting with the Provenzano family tomorrow. I expect you to represent our family well.”
I closed my eyes, my jaw tight. “Fine. I’ll be there. But I’m not leaving Zara here alone.”
“Bring her if you must. But don’t let her distract you.”
He ended the call before I could respond.
I stood there, in my family’s study, surrounded by portraits of ancestors who’d built empires on blood and ruthlessness. And all I could think about was the sadness I’d seen flicker in Zara’s eyes before I’d kissed it away.
After spending several hours on business and getting a debrief from Cosa about the Provenzano family, I headed upstairs, where Zara was taking pictures and playing with Beau.
I’d promised to make up for my absence.
And I intended to keep that promise tonight, in every way I knew how.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Zara
The journal pages were beginning to wrinkle beneath my fingers.
Not from age.
From use.
From opening and closing them too many times these past five days, ink pressed hard onto paper as my thoughts outran my hand. The corners soften, the spine bends from holding it against my chest before sleep.
I sat curled in the wrought-iron chair on our villa’s balcony, one bare foot tucked under me, the Tuscan sun warming my skin in amber light.
Italy had a different kind of sunlight than at home.
Warmer somehow. Thicker. Like honey poured across the hills.
Here, everything feels saturated. Colors brighter, air sweeter, food richer, emotions sharper. Evenings feel alive in a way I’ve never felt. Downstairs, Mariella hums as she moves around the kitchen. Pots clatter. Garlic and tomatoes simmer in olive oil. The scent drifts up with lavender from the garden.
And every single time reality catches up to me, I have the same thought.
I still couldn’t believe this is my life.
Five days.
Only five days since Lorenzo brought me to Italy, and somehow the entire shape of my world has changed.
