“Tell him I’m ill,” I called through the cracked door. “I can’t come down.”
Papa hesitated in the hall. “Are you alright? Should I call a doctor?”
Matteo’s eyes met mine—steady, dark with concern.
“Just exhausted,” I managed. “I’ll rest today.”
A pause, his worry pressing through wood and paint. “Va bene, cara. I’ll tell Dottore Ferraro.”
Footsteps retreated. Voices drifted up a moment later—Papa apologetic, Luca smooth and cool. I couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence was pure Ferraro: courteous, cutting, calculated.
Matteo rose first and nodded toward the window. Part of me didn’t want even a last glance. The other part needed proof that Ferraro was leaving.
I slipped behind the curtain. Below, Luca placed his suitcase in the trunk with precise motions—no wasted effort, no visible anger. Papa walked him out, hands spread in apology. “Mi dispiace tanto. She’d have wanted to say goodbye.”
“Please give her my best wishes,” Luca replied, perfectly polite, every syllable edged. “I’ll call later to check on her condition.”
The car glided down the drive and disappeared around the bend. Only when the black dot was gone did breath leave my body.
***
I changed into jeans and a soft sweater that didn’t feel like anyone’s costume. We drove to Luisa with the windows cracked. Vines ran in disciplined lines; olive leaves flashed silver. The world looked ordinary, which felt like a miracle and an insult at once. When the road curved, Matteo glanced over—not asking, just checking the weather of my face.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
“Always,” he answered, and somehow that single word anchored the car.
Caffè Margherita was still yawning into the morning. The bell chimed; espresso steam curled; two old men argued over football in stage whispers. Luisa waited at a window table with two pens and a ruled notebook. She stood so fast her chair squeaked, then hugged me hard enough to set my bones.
At first the words came slow, like dragging suitcases down stairs. Then something unlatched and they poured—Rome, tutoring, the way he admired my “mind” while watching everything else; Tuscany, director; the letters; the hands; the photos; the dress that turned me into Mama’s ghost. The attic. The threat. Midnight.
Luisa covered her mouth. Tears sprang, glittered, fell angry. Then she inhaled, squared her shoulders, and flipped to a clean page.
“Evidence,” she said, voice steadying. “Let’s inventory.”
We lined up the proof: texts from Luca, call logs, calendar entries, clinic schedule with his signature, the email with L.F., the exact wording of “My bedroom. Midnight”, the old man’s comment during rounds, the nurse’s recommendation letter he bragged about, the poster above his bed. I scrolled; she screenshot.
“This is enough to start,” Luisa said at last, capping her pen. “We can go to the police.”
The word hit the table like a gavel.
“Not yet,” I whispered. “I will. I just—need breath. And I have to tell Papa.” The admission scraped my throat. “That’s the part I can’t do. He’ll explode. He’ll blame himself. He’ll—” I saw his face, all fear and fury.
Luisa reached across the cups and took my hand.
The drive home was quiet, but the silence felt full. Fieldworkers called across the vines; swallows carved the air.
Soon we slipped in through the side door. The villa was cool and subdued. I almost believed we’d get three peaceful hours.
“Bella?”
Sofia stood in the living-room doorway, all clean lines in a pale blue dress, hair in a low twist. She looked like a painting and a person at once. When her gaze flicked to how close I stood to Matteo, something soft and pained crossed her face.
“Your father’s at the vineyard,” she said gently. “Back by evening. I wondered if—” she hesitated, choosing the right size of words, “—you and I might have a late lunch. Just us. To get to know each other.”
Relief and suspicion wrestled in me; both lost to exhaustion. I looked at Matteo. He read my face and stepped back a half pace.
“I’ll be in the garden,” he said quietly. “If you need me.”
His palm brushed my back—one second, light as breath.
Sofia led me to the veranda. The table was set with fruit and still-warm croissants, a silver pot of coffee, orange juice catching the sun. She watched me the way you watch a bird with a hurt wing—attentive, not trapping.
I broke a croissant. Crumbs skittered. My hands wouldn’t behave.
“Bella,” she said, setting down her cup. “We barely know each other. I won’t push. But—are you alright?”
“Yes,” I said automatically. “Just tired.”
“Tired,” she repeated, not buying it and not arguing. “I see more than you think.”
I looked up. Her eyes didn’t flinch.
“You don’t know me,” I said, smaller than I meant.
“No,” she agreed. “But I know that look.”
“How?”
She drew a breath and placed her hand on mine—light, easy to refuse. I didn’t. “Because once, long ago,” she said quietly, “I had the same look. I was trapped and terrified by a grown-up man.”
Heat climbed my neck. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I can help. If you want it. The hardest thing,” she said softly, “is the first truth out loud. Silence feels safer, but it steals you piece by piece.”
The wall I’d held all day cracked. Tears came fast, ugly, grateful. “I can’t tell Papa,” I sobbed. “He’ll burn the world down. He’ll think it’s his fault. He’ll break.”
She moved her chair closer and wrapped her arms around me like she’d practiced this tenderness. “He may break,” she murmured. “And he may also hold. He loves you enough to be frightened. Let him be frightened and still stay.”
The phone rang—sharp, too loud, slicing the air.
Luca.
His name on the screen was a fist. Sofia’s fingers tightened around mine. “Don’t answer,” she said quickly. “You don’t owe him—”
“Luisa said document everything,” I whispered. “Every contact.”
I put it on speaker and started recording, laying it between us like a lit match.
“Isabella.” Velvet over glass. “Your father says you’re ill. How convenient.”
“I am,” I said. My voice trembled; it didn’t break.
“I think you’re avoiding me. Unwise,” he went on, diction immaculate. “We have an arrangement.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said. It came out shaky and true.
He laughed—a polished, pitying sound. “Not afraid? Oh, cara. You should be.” A pause, silkier. “Your Tuscany practice program felt… incomplete. Perhaps another placement would help. Very private. Very intensive. I will come in five days to discuss it.”