The first thing I noticed after the rescue was the silence.
Beyond the walls of the private suite at Marchetti Family headquarters, the world was still in motion. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Men shouted orders in clipped Italian. Doors opened and closed. Phones rang. Somewhere below us, engines started as the last remnants of the night’s violence were cleaned away.
And far beyond the city, thunder rumbled as the storm retreated from Milan.
But inside the room, there was only me and Matteo.
For the first time since our marriage began, there were no contracts.
I sat on the edge of a wide bed wearing one of Matteo’s white shirts. The cotton was soft against my skin and still carried the scent of him—cedar, clean linen, and the quiet comfort that had somehow become home.
My hai
