The Don's Secret Heir

Chapter 17: Renzo Makes a Move

Valentina POV

He had emailed me three times.

The first one came the morning after the party. It was short and easy, with no pressure. I read it twice and then closed my laptop, refusing to give him a second of my time. The second one came four days later. It was a quick note about a show in Milan he thought I might like, a private viewing for a collector. I sent it to Sofia and didn't reply to him. The third was just one line: I'll be in Milan until the end of the month if you change your mind about that coffee.

I didn't answer that one either.

I wasn't playing a game. I just had no room in my life for someone I didn't understand. Renzo Caruso had shown up at a party when I was already stressed. He had a nice smile and talked about clothes, and I had given him my card before I could even think about it. That wasn't a good enough reason to go for coffee. People like Renzo usually wanted something, and I didn't have anything left to give.

The art gallery opening was Edoardo's idea. A buyer was going to be there, which meant we could do business and look at art at the same time. The gallery was small, bright, and very serious.

I wore black and brought my business cards. I told myself I would stay for only one hour. I checked my watch as I walked in, already planning my exit.

I had been there for twenty minutes when I saw him.

He was standing by the back wall, looking at a large painting that was mostly grey and orange. He wasn't pretending to be interested like most people do. He wasn't nodding at the canvas or whispering to a friend. He was just looking at it quietly, as if he were the only person in the room.

He turned around before I could decide if I wanted to say hello.

"I looked up the event," he said, walking toward me. He didn't apologize or act fake. "I thought you might be here."

"And if I wasn't?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

"Then I would have looked at the art and gone home. Maybe I would have bought a painting I didn't need." He looked at the canvas again. "This one is interesting. I don't know what it is, but I like it. It looks the way a Monday morning feels."

"Grey and rusty?" I asked, almost smiling.

"Exactly."

Edoardo appeared next to me, saw Renzo, and immediately walked away to give us space. He didn't even say goodbye; he just vanished into the crowd.

"One drink," I said, setting the limit.

He nodded. "One drink. I promise not to talk about autumn jackets."

We found a quiet corner in the back. He grabbed wine from a tray. He remembered I had been drinking white wine at the party and handed me the right glass without asking. I noticed that, but I didn't say anything. Most men forgot your name by the second drink; he remembered my preference from a week ago.

"How long have you been in Milan?" I asked.

"Three weeks. I have an apartment nearby. I move a lot for my work."

"Buying art?"

"Yes." He slowly turned his glass in his hand. "I work for people with money. Some have old money and don't know what they own. Some have new money and want to look smart. I sit in the middle and try to make everyone happy. It’s mostly just moving things from one house to another."

"That sounds tiring," I said. "Managing all those egos."

"Sometimes it is. People get very attached to things they don't understand." He smiled. It wasn't the big smile from the party. This one was smaller and quieter. "What about you? Do you live in Milan or move around?"

"Milan and Florence mostly. Paris when I have to."

"You have a shop there. I've seen the photos. It looks like a gallery itself."

"It's a workspace," I corrected.

"I almost went there six months ago," he said. "A client needed help and I almost gave her your name. I spent an hour looking at your website." He paused. "I should have sent her."

"Why didn't you?"

He thought about it for a second, looking down at his wine. "I thought she would buy everything and I would lose my chance to make money. It was selfish. I'm working on that. I like to be the only person in the room who knows a secret."

"And NOIR DONNA was a secret?"

"It was to me," he said softly.

I looked at him. I have a habit when I'm not sure about someone. I watch their hands. It is harder to lie with your hands than with your face. Nervous people grip things too tight. Liars keep their hands too still.

Renzo's hands were relaxed. He held his glass lightly. He moved his hands naturally when he talked. When he listened, he was still but he didn't look stiff. He wasn't checking his phone or looking over my shoulder for someone more important.

Nothing about him felt wrong. That didn't mean everything was right, though. It just meant I hadn't found the problem yet.

At nine-fifteen, Edoardo told me he was leaving for dinner and asked if I wanted to come.

"I'll find my own way home," I said.

He left, and the gallery started to get empty. The music had slowed down, and the lights felt dimmer. Renzo and I had been talking for over an hour without me even noticing. That was unusual for me. Usually, I was counting the minutes until I could be back in my own space.

"I should go," I said. "My driver is probably asleep."

"I'll walk you to your car. The streets are a bit dark around here."

It wasn't a question, but he wasn't being pushy. It was just an offer. I said yes.

The street was cold with that sharp Milan air that feels like ice against your skin. We walked half a block to where my driver was waiting. Renzo kept his hands in his pockets and walked at my speed, not trying to lead or lag behind.

"You're very quiet when you walk," he remarked.

"I'm thinking," I said.

"About work?"

"Always."

When we reached the car, he stopped. He didn't ask for anything. He didn't ask to see me again or try to get my number, he knew I already had his. He didn't lean in or try to make a move. He just stood there in the cold light of the streetlamp.

"Goodnight, Valentina," he said, stepping back into the shadows. "I hope you find whatever you were thinking about."

I got in the car. The heater was already running, but I still felt the chill.

Through the window, I watched him walk away. He didn't look back. He didn't check to see if I was watching him. He just walked toward the Brera streets with a steady, calm pace.

Something changed inside me. It was small, like a door moving just a little bit in a breeze. It wasn't open, but it wasn't completely shut anymore either. It was a strange feeling, part curiosity, part fear.

I didn't give it a name. I looked away, took out my phone, and finally answered an email from Sofia about the Paris order that I had been ignoring all day. I focused on the numbers, but for the first time, they didn't feel like enough.