Valentina POV
I made it downstairs twelve minutes later with damp hair, bare feet, and the quiet satisfaction of a woman who knew more than she had an hour ago.
The house had settled into its late-night shape. Lamps glowed in the halls. Staff had disappeared into the back corridors.
Rain finally tapped against the windows, soft and steady, turning the gardens into dark blurs beyond the glass.
The Moretti estate always felt different at night.
Less like a mansion.
More like a heart trying not to remember where it had been wounded.
I found my family in my father's private sitting room, which meant no one had believed for even a second that we were done discussing Nikolai Sokolov.
Typical.
The room was warm with firelight and old leather, lined with bookshelves, family photographs,
