The ring had been on her finger for six months.
Aria had not stopped noticing it. Not in the way of someone who was performing attachment to a symbol — she had never been that kind of person, had always been skeptical of the performance of sentiment over the substance of it. She noticed it the way she noticed things that were true: steadily, without drama, with the specific satisfaction of something that was exactly right.
She was sitting at her desk in the building on the north side — her building now, the one with William Wolfe’s key that fit the lock on the front door — when Rosa called.
Not the building’s Rosa. Her Rosa. The Rosa who had worked for Luca’s family since before he was born and who had become, in the year and a half since Aria arrived, the closest thing to a grandmother
