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I shouldn’t care either.

“Come, Maria.”

My father steps out of the car first, followed by my mother. I force myself to follow, my body stiff, resisting every step. The staff come to the car and begin to offload the car with all our bags, and I just stand there next to my parents.

My mother pulls me into a tight embrace, her tears soaking into my shoulder. “Call me as soon as you land. FaceTime every week. Reply to my messages so I know you’re safe.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“If you need me, I’ll be on the first jet out?—”

“We don’t have the jet anymore, amore,” my father interjects gently.

She whips around, glaring. “Then you will buy one, Marcello. You are still in the doghouse.”

A flicker of amusement crosses my father’s face—just for a moment.

That alone tells me they will be fine.

She turns back, pressing kisses to my cheeks and forehead. “Ciao, cara mia.”

I cling to her warmth, memorizing it. “Ciao, Mamá.”

When I step away, my father meets my gaze. “You have made me proud, Maria. I have asked much of you, and you understood your duty. If you ever need me—no matter how big or small—I am a phone call away.”

The sincerity in his words is rare, but I hold onto it.

I walk into his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of him. For a moment, I am a little girl again, safe in his steady embrace.

“Ciao, Papá.”

I turn and walk toward the jet, my steps measured.

Matteo is waiting.

His hands in his pockets, his expression impossible to read.

I study him—his posture is relaxed, but there’s an underlying tension in his shoulders. Controlled. Measured. As if nothing in the world could rattle him.

Does he feel nothing?

Or is he simply that good at hiding it?

I step past him. He barely acknowledges me, shifting slightly to let me go first—just enough space to force me to brush against him. The briefest contact.

I glance back one last time. My mother is openly crying now, my father holding her close.

I press a hand to my chest. “Ti amo.”

They mouth the words back.

The entire ride from the manor to the airport, he has kept a distance from me, as if allowing me to have these last moments with my parents undisturbed.

I guess the Warlord is capable of compassion and empathy.

Then I turn away, stepping into the jet.

“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Davacalli. My name is Stephanie, and I’ll be taking care of you today.”