The air in Milan hit me differently.
It wasn’t just the crispness of it after the recycled chill of the jet’s cabin, or the faint perfume of night-blooming jasmine that drifted in from somewhere I couldn’t see. No—what made my chest tighten was the way the city itself seemed to hum with quiet wealth.
No honking chaos. No loud laughter spilling from bars. Just sleek black cars gliding over cobblestones, muted lights glowing against old architecture polished to a shine, and people walking with the kind of poise that suggested the world belonged to them.
I felt like an intruder the second my heels touched the tarmac.
The driver—a tall man in a tailored suit who introduced himself simply as “Vargas”—escorted us to a waiting car. Not a limousine. Not some flashy sports car either. A black M
