I learned I was to be married on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
The kind of rain that turns the sky the color of bruises and makes the world outside feel distant and unreal. Thunder rolled over Milan in long, ominous waves, rattling the windows of my father’s study hard enough to make the crystal decanters tremble on the shelves. The scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp aroma of leather and polished wood.
I stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on the brass handle, and immediately sensed that something was wrong.
My Father stood behind his massive mahogany desk, staring out at the storm. He looked older than his fifty-eight years. The silver streaking his dark hair seemed more pronounced, and the weight in his shoulders made him appear diminished somehow
