Page 28

VALENTINA

T he faint creak of the door behind me as it swings shut, snaps me into focus. Aria stands there, her silhouette sharp under the dim security lights, her expression unreadable.

“You don’t have much time,” she says simply, her voice cutting through the tense air.

I glance toward the exit, the promise of freedom just feet away. My instincts scream at me to bolt, but there’s something in Aria’s tone that makes me pause. “Why are you helping me?” I ask, my voice tight, my eyes darting to the faint glow of guards’ flashlights in the distance.

“I didn’t say I was,” she replies, stepping closer. “But if you keep stumbling around like this, you’ll get caught. And believe me, if that happens, it won’t be Luca who finds you first—it’ll be his men. They won’t be gentle.”

Her words send a cold rush through me.

“Fine,” I snap. “Then what do you suggest?”

Aria tilts her head, calculating, before gesturing toward the door. “Follow me. Quickly. We’ll take the long way around.”

The cold air bites against my skin as we step out into the night. Aria moves with the ease of someone who knows exactly where every guard is stationed. She gestures for me to stay low as we creep along the side of the estate, the gravel crunching faintly beneath our feet.

A light sweeps across the yard ahead, and Aria pulls me sharply against the wall. My breath catches, the beam passing just inches away from us.

“Stay close,” she mutters.

We dart across the open stretch of lawn, heading toward a service gate partially hidden by overgrown hedges. The gate is locked, but Aria pulls a key from her pocket, her movements quick and efficient.

“How do you have that?” I hiss, watching her.

She doesn’t answer, shoving the gate open just enough for us to slip through.

We’re on the street now, the estate looming behind us like a shadowed fortress. Aria doesn’t slow, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.

“This way,” she says, leading me down a side street lined with darkened storefronts.

The back gate clicks softly behind us as we step onto the quiet street. Aria casts one sharp look over her shoulder before pulling her coat tighter and gesturing for me to follow.

“Move. Quickly.”

I don’t ask questions. My heart pounds as I fall into step beside her. The estate looms in the distance, dark and foreboding, but with every step we take away from it, a small thread of tension unwinds in my chest.

We walk in silence for a block before a car pulls up smoothly to the curb, its dark windows reflecting the streetlights above. Aria opens the back door, her expression unreadable.

“Get in,” she says.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hesitation making my feet stall.

Aria’s eyes narrow slightly. “To the only place you’ll be safe right now. The Lombardi estate.”

Her words catch me off guard. The Lombardis? My pulse races, but there’s no time to question her. Another look over her shoulder, a flicker of tension in her jaw, and I know I have no choice.

I climb into the car, the scent of leather and faint cologne enveloping me. Aria slides in beside me, shutting the door firmly.

“Drive,” she tells the man in the driver’s seat, who nods without a word.

The car glides through the city with smooth efficiency, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound. I glance out the window at the streets I’ve walked so many times before, now unfamiliar under the cloak of night.

“Why are you helping me?” I finally ask, turning to Aria.

She leans back against the seat, her face cast in shadows. “Let’s just say I understand your situation better than you think.”

Her answer is cryptic, offering no real comfort, but I don’t press.

“You could’ve stopped me,” I say, more to myself than to her.

“I could’ve,” she admits, her tone light but her eyes sharp as they flick toward me. “But I didn’t. And now we’re here.”

The car slows as we turn onto a narrower road flanked by towering stone walls.

There’s no grand entrance, no fanfare. Just iron gates that part without a word and a long stretch of quiet leading to a darker wing of the estate.

It isn’t the main house I see first, but the edge of it—the older section, tucked behind the ballroom and cloaked in shadow.

From the outside, the Lombardi home doesn’t announce itself in gold or steel. It waits. Watching.

The vehicle stops near a side entrance. Aria steps out first. She doesn’t look back to check if I’m following, but I do.

I don’t ask where we are. I don’t have to.

Everything about her posture tells me this is a place meant for discretion.

Her heels click softly on the marble as she leads me in, past alcoves and narrow stairwells, through a hallway that smells faintly of wood smoke and lavender.

A woman appears at the far end of the corridor—her mother, I think.

The resemblance is unmistakable. For a moment, their voices rise in a sharp exchange, but I can’t quite make out the words.

Then Aria shifts, standing in front of me.

Just for a breath. When I step forward, the woman’s face changes.

Whatever anger she carried vanishes, replaced by something cooler.

She studies me with practiced calm, then nods once.

I’m sent with a maid to the east wing, third floor. No questions, no explanation. Just quiet efficiency. The room I’m shown into is elegant but understated, with tall windows and pale wallpaper that catches the moonlight. A tray appears minutes later—food I can’t touch, towels I don’t need.

By morning, I’m no more rested than I was the night before.

The sheets are soft, the room warm, but nothing here settles me.

Every knock, every footstep in the hall, makes me wonder if someone’s changed their mind about letting me stay.

When the maid returns to fetch me for breakfast, I dress quickly and follow, my bag still packed, just in case.

The dining room is too large for three people.

A polished table stretches nearly the length of the room, set with silver and china that glints in the morning light.

Aria’s mother sits at the far end, her back straight, a linen napkin resting lightly in her lap.

She’s already dressed for the day in a dark green blouse and pearl earrings, every detail immaculate.

Her face is unreadable, but her eyes follow every movement I make. “Good morning,” she says evenly.

I murmur the same in return, unsure whether I’m being welcomed or assessed. Aria gestures to the seat beside her and I take it without comment. Breakfast has already been laid out—coffee, fresh bread, ripe fruit, cured meats, butter so pale it looks like ivory. I reach for nothing.

“You look better than you did last night,” her mother says. It isn’t kindness. It’s observation.

I offer a small smile, measured. “I feel better.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer before shifting back to her cup. “Rest is good. Especially when one has so many eyes watching.”

Aria’s hand moves slightly beside mine, her voice calm. “We aren’t here to test her.”

“No,” her mother agrees, tone smooth as cream. “Only to understand her.”

The rest of the meal passes in relative silence.

I sip my coffee, though it knots my stomach, and try not to flinch at the sound of silverware on porcelain.

Aria speaks once or twice, mostly to deflect questions that aren't really questions. Her mother says nothing outright, but she doesn’t have to.

Everything in her posture, in her narrowed glances, says the same thing: you are a piece on the board now. Know your place, or be moved.

When we’re finally dismissed, Aria rises first. I follow her down a side corridor, toward the quieter parts of the house. Only when the doors are shut behind us does she let her shoulders drop the slightest bit.

By late afternoon, the halls are quiet again. Whatever judgment was passed over breakfast has settled, and no one has come knocking since. I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands resting on my knees, waiting for something to change. The silence feels loaded, like the house is listening.

A knock finally comes. It’s Aria. She steps inside and closes the door behind her. “You’ll leave tonight,” she says.

I nod slowly. “Where am I going?”

“Sicily. You’ll be under a different name. New documents. New bank accounts. It’s not glamorous, but it’s safe.”

My throat tightens. “Luca doesn’t know.”

“No,” she says. “And that’s the point.”

She crosses to the dresser and places a small envelope beside my bag.

I glance at it—passport, plane ticket, a phone I’ve never seen before.

The Lombardis don’t do anything halfway.

This is no longer a temporary refuge. This is an exit.

“There’s a car waiting at the back of the estate,” she adds.

“It’ll take you directly to the airfield. ”

I stand, my voice thin. “Why are you helping me?”

Aria doesn’t answer right away. She folds her arms, looking at me with the same unreadable calm she wore the night before. “Because you saw something coming and tried to run toward it instead of away. That’s rare. Even here.”

Her words settle over me, too heavy to respond to. I zip the bag, slowly, fingers pausing once on the leather handle. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

She gives the faintest shake of her head. “There’s no such thing. There’s only what you can live with.”

The drive to the airfield is long, silent, and strange.

I watch the city slide past, lights bleeding across wet pavement, storefronts glowing with the kind of warmth that feels entirely separate from my life.

The farther we go, the more untethered I feel.

As if I’ve already vanished and the woman sitting in the back seat is just a shadow of whoever I was supposed to be.

By the time we reach the private airstrip, the sky has begun to pale.

The jet waits, engines silent, stairs down.

The driver opens the door but says nothing.

I hesitate at the bottom of the steps. I expect to feel free. I don’t. I expect to feel safe. I don’t. I only feel gone.