Lola De Rossi’s POV
We arrived at the estate around midday. The road wound through endless vineyards, green hills that smelled of fertile soil and ripe grapes. The Sicilian sun burned, but the air was dry and clean. The triplets slept in the back seat of the rental car, exhausted from the drive from Taormina. Carla drove in silence, casting sidelong glances at me every few minutes.
“There’s no turning back now,” she said at last, shutting off the engine in front of the wrought-iron gate.
I nodded. My throat was dry. I had spent weeks imagining this moment, but nothing had prepared me for the reality: the mansion in the distance, white and majestic, with flowered balconies and a garden that looked straight out of an old postcard.
A guard let us in after checking my name. “Mr. De Ross
