Antonio’s POV
The early hours of the morning felt colder than usual. Maybe it was the Milan air, heavy with summer storms, or maybe it was the weight on my chest—the guilt that had sat there for days, gnawing at me like a starving wolf.
I rose before dawn, unable to sleep. My routine felt mechanical: shower, shave, slip into one of my suits. But no fabric, no cut, no sheen of wealth could shield me from what I was about to do.
Today, I wasn’t Antonio De-Rosie, patriarch of an empire today, I was just a man who had wronged a family who had given me everything.
For breakfast, I barely touched the food. My house staff set out eggs, fresh bread, coffee—the usual spread. But I pushed it aside, my appetite lost to nerves. My mind was on Camilla. On the look in her eyes when I confronted her
