By the time the jet’s stairs hit the tarmac, my spine feels like it’s been welded into a straight line.
Dante descends first, of course. Luca follows. Then, with Mia at my elbow, I step out into air that tastes different—salt and stone and something older than my Spotify top ten.
The sky is just turning that bruised indigo between night and dawn. A private terminal stretches around us, all glass and steel and quiet efficiency. No paparazzi, no fans, just a few workers in reflective vests who seem more interested in avoiding eye contact with Dante than anything else.
A line of black SUVs waits beyond the security fence.
“Ms. Vega.” A man in a dark suit steps forward, nods. “Welcome to Sicily.”
He doesn’t look at my face for more than a second. His gaze slides past me to Dante, and that
