Six months later, I stood barefoot on the stone terrace of our villa overlooking Lake Como, watching the morning sunlight scatter across the water like spilled gold.
The lake stretched before me in perfect stillness, framed by dark green cypress trees and distant mountains softened by early mist. Roses climbed the terrace walls, their fragrance mingling with the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifting from inside the house.
Birds called from the gardens below.
A light breeze lifted the hem of my silk robe.
And for the first time in years, there was no war waiting at the end of the day.
Only peace.
The kind of peace I once believed belonged exclusively to other people.
I rested my hands on the cool stone railing and let the truth settle over me.
Vittorio Santoro was in prison
