The next morning, the villa feels like it’s holding its breath.
No cliff meetings. No label calls. Just the hum of generators, the far‑off thud of waves, and the quiet clink of staff going about their business.
Giovanni informs me at breakfast that “the studio is ready whenever you wish to see it, Signora.”
“Studio?” I repeat.
“Mr. Moretti had it prepared,” he says. “For your use.”
My first instinct is suspicion. My second is curiosity. My third is hunger—the kind that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with microphones and soundproofed walls.
“You want to go?” Mia asks as we head back toward the east wing.
“No,” I say. “Yes. Shut up.”
She grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
—
The studio is tucked into a wing. I haven’t explored yet—down a flight of stairs through a h
