That was why I bought this place. Not only for the ice cream shop or the garden attached to it, but for the peonies. They hadbeen here long before me, growing in wild, beautiful clusters, like she loved. Like we had been…once.
Now, standing in the middle of The Flower Garden, I let my gaze linger on them, half-hoping, half-praying somehow, wherever she was, she could feel it too. That she knew I never stopped holding on.
Just then, Dillon’s voice rang out behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned, crossing my arms as I took in his easy grin.
“Everything’s all set,” I said, though I still wasn’t sure what I’d signed up for. “You owe me for this one.”
“Thanks, Ro,” Dillon replied, a glint of mischief in his eyes. He didn’t even try to hide it.
I shook my head, feigning exasperation. “Do I even want to know why I closed down my ice-cream park for you? I’m losing a lot of money here, Xander.”
He waved it off with his usual confidence. “Relax. You’ll make twice as much within the next few minutes.”
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Thisgatheringof yours has to take place here?”
“Yes,” he replied, not the least bit apologetic.
Typical.I studied him for a moment, noticing the way he couldn’t hide the flash of excitement in his eyes. I’d bet good money this had everything to do with the five-foot-six obsession that recently walked into his office as an intern.
I shook my head, finally letting a smirk slip through. “Don’t burn the place down, alright?”
Dillon chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
With a final glance back, I left him laughing, his voice fading as I made my way to the airfield. My mind was already in Italy—on business, yes, but also on Nina’s show. I remembered every late-night talk about her dream school, every sketch she shared, theway her eyes lit up at the thought of a real show. And now, she wasn’t only attending one—she was hosting. I had to be there, front row, as I’d promised her years ago.
I once thought the hardest part was waking up each morning, mustering enough courage to face the world. But I was wrong. The hardest thing was living with only the whispers of her, the echo of her laughter that lingered like a ghost, and the phantom warmth of her touch still brushing against my skin.
I clung to that worn photograph in my wallet, to remember how her smile once lit up my life. I closed my eyes, reaching for the scent of her hair and the softness in her gaze when she looked at me.
“Sir.” The flight attendant’s voice pulled me back. “We’ll be stopping in Milan for your patient visit, then departing for Tuscany promptly at five to ensure your timely arrival.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
She nodded confidently. “Absolutely, sir. May I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
With a polite smile, she walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Needing a distraction, I called Rachel, my assistant, who had arrived in Italy a day earlier. She answered on the first ring, confirming everything was set for my arrival.
With that reassurance, I leaned back in my seat, letting the steady rhythm of the jet and the passing hours blur together.
Nine hours later, my jet touched down in Milan. As soon as I stepped out, I was met with a sea of reporters and flashing cameras, their voices blending into the background noise of the city.
I’ve always loved Milan—its grand buildings, like the Duomo and the sweeping architecture blending history with modernity, the luxury shops lining every street, and the vibrant energy ofthe city. But only a patient mattered at this moment.
The letter was handwritten, unexpected, and enough to pull me here before anything else. Before deciding to go, I reached out to the head doctors there, and they gave me the go-ahead to step in. The medical board at General Wellness questioned my decision and asked what I stood to gain.But what mattered more than saving a life?
I’d built a name for myself in oncology, especially with cancer and dialysis patients. Still, as I stepped intoOspedale San Luminato, San Luminato Hospital, a familiar knot of nerves tightened in my stomach. I forced it down and followed as my equipment was carried inside. I was greeted warmly by one of the senior doctors and nurses, given a brief welcome, and walked to the quiet room where Mrs. De Luca—the patient I needed to see—waited.
She was fragile but determined, her blue eyes filled with a strength that reminded me of someone I’d once loved.
My mother.
This wasn’t about money or recognition. It was about honoring the fight.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. De Luca.”
