It should comfort me.
It doesn’t.
Mia herds me toward the bathroom.
“Shower,” she orders. “Wash off the street, the SUV, the comments. Start fresh.”
I let the hot water beat against my sore muscles, against the bruise on my arm, against the place in my chest that felt like cracked glass.
When I come out, wrapped in a robe, hair damp, the ring sits on the bedside table.
I ignore it.
Pull on jeans, a soft sweater, nothing dramatic.
Mia does a bare minimum on my face—concealer, mascara, something to make me look like a person, not a ghost.
“You sure?” she asks at the end, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“No,” I say. “Do it anyway.”
—
The “statement room” is one of the villa’s smaller salons—neutral walls, tasteful art, and a couch that could be in any expensive hotel.
Vittorio, th
