*ORLANDO*
I hung up the phone with Vincenzo, feeling that familiar buzz of triumph swell in my chest. The sun filtered through the curtains, casting lazy beams across the living room, illuminating the worn carpet and the corners of a past that felt more like a stage than reality. I turned my attention to my mother, Claudia, who sat on the couch, a picture of both resilience and fragility. She was still a bit battered from the chaos of the attack on the island—her bruises had begun to fade, but they were reminders; reminders of the war we were fighting, both externally and within ourselves.
She was nestled under a hand-knit blanket, looking as regal as any queen despite the turmoil etched across her features. My nanny, a maternal figure in her own right, busily tended to her, bringing ove
