POV Adrián
Sicily smells different. It’s not just the salty air off the Mediterranean or the scent of lemon trees that seeps into every corner. It’s something deeper. Ancient. As if the island itself breathes stories that have been buried in its hills for centuries.
The rental car climbs winding roads, skirting vineyards that seem endless. Victoria sits in the passenger seat, checking the presentation for the fifth time on her tablet—tweaking words, polishing numbers. Always polishing.
“Remember,” she says without looking up. “Alessandro De Rossi is traditional. He doesn’t like corporate speeches. Talk about family, legacy, building something that outlives you. That’s what he responds to.”
“You already told me. Three times.”
“And I’ll tell you a fourth if I have to,” she shoots bac
