Damien didn't sleep on the flight back to Rome.
Valentina watched him from across the cabin, her mother finally resting in the seat beside her for the first time in what looked like years, and understood the particular stillness in his posture wasn't calm. It was the careful, controlled quiet of a man holding himself together by force.
"You should rest," she said, echoing his own words back to him from Marseille.
"I can't." He didn't look up from the window. "Every memory I have of the last twelve years has Enzo somewhere in it. I'm trying to work out which of them were real and which of them were performances I never noticed."
"Not all of them can be lies."
"No. Which is almost worse." He finally turned to face her, exhaustion carved into features that usually gave nothing away. "He
