Rafael arrives three days later, like a secret being smuggled in under the floorboards, and most of the staff don’t even look up.
They bring him through the service entrance just after dawn, when the shift changes and the light is still blue. Mia and I watch from the studio window as a nondescript black car rolls up the side drive, far from the main gates.
Luca steps out first, scanning the tree line. Then Rafael unfolds from the back seat, guitar case in hand, shoulders stiff.
“They didn’t actually blindfold him,” Mia murmurs. “I’m disappointed.”
“He threatened to bite,” I say. “Luca doesn’t need that on his HR record.”
The men disappear into the lower corridor. A minute later, there’s a knock on the studio door.
Mia practically vibrates. “Art husband,” she whispers, then clears her
