Valentina POV
The line clicked.
A heavy, suffocating silence stretched across the digital static before his voice cut through, colder than the Alpine drizzle soaking through my coat.
"Valentina," Marco said. No greeting. No warmth. Just the flat, unyielding tone of a man who had already buried our past and locked the lid. "I told you to leave Milan. If you are calling about Renzo’s files or Carmela’s movement, Luca is already handling—"
"Shut up, Marco," I choked out, my voice cracking, raw and bleeding against the receiver.
I leaned heavily against the cold brick wall of the school lobby, watching the director bleed onto the polished tile, my chest heaving so violently I could barely draw air.
On the other end, Marco paused. The faint rustle of papers stopped. "Watch your tone," he
