Valentina's POV
The week after Enzo's interrogation, Massimo called me eleven times in a single day.
I counted.
The first call came at seven in the morning, before I'd had coffee. The last came just past midnight, his voice warm and unhurried, as if phoning a woman at midnight was the most natural thing in the world.
In between, there were check-in texts, location requests framed as questions, "Where are you, bella?" and once, a car sent to my apartment building without warning, idling at the curb until I went downstairs to prove I was home.
He never said he didn't trust me.
He didn't have to.
Valdina handled it the way Valdina handled everything Massimo did, with softness, with patience, with the particular kind of warm compliance that men like him mistook for devotion. She answered every call. She sent photos of wherever she was. She laughed lightly when the car arrived unannounced and told the driver she'd be right down.
