Valentina didn’t speak much the next day. She moved like a ghost controlled, composed, but distant, as if she had folded the ache into some unreachable place inside her. I didn’t press her. Some wounds couldn’t be forced open; they needed to breathe.
We sat in the sunlit dining room for breakfast, but the table felt like a funeral altar. Catalina had already left, leaving a note that she’d return when Valentina was ready to face more. For now, the house was still. Too still.
I poured her tea. She didn't touch it.
“I can have the jet ready,” I said finally. “We can leave Lisbon by nightfall. Head to the estate in Sicily. Or even further. Anywhere you want.”
She looked at me slowly. Her voice was quiet, frayed at the edges. “Running doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know.”
“But I also know I c
