“Dr. Romano, thank you for coming.”
I reviewed her chart as she spoke, noting the consistent fatigue, nausea, and persistent pain. The chemo for her ovarian cancer wasn’t working anymore, and it was taking more than it gave. I asked what others hadn’t: about stress, appetite, family history, every small change.
When I finished, I met her gaze. “Your overall progress is encouraging, but we’ll adjust your treatment to better target this stage and reduce the side effects. We’ll run more tests and find a better approach.”
Relief softened her face. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s my privilege.”
Anger followed me down the hall to Dr. Mariano Russo, the head doctor’s office.
“Why aren’t you doing more for her?” I demanded. “Why this one-track approach?”
Dr. Russo didn’t flinch. “We’re doing what she can afford.”
“That’s bullshit. Send me her bills, and I’ll cover them. There’s no excuse to let her suffer.”
“We have a limited budget,” he said quietly. “And many patients to help. There are restrictions and limitations.”
“This whole profession is about saving lives, not numbers. I deal with these cases regularly. Do what’s right, not what’s easy.”
I couldn’t count how many times I had to step in and assist patients with their bills or treatment because I knew they couldn’t support themselves. What kind of human being would I be if I could help people but didn’t? What if the roles were reversed?
He hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“No,” I said. “You’ll do what she needs. I’ve outlined everything in my report. I’ll follow up.”
After a long moment, he nodded. “We’ll start immediately.”
I left the hospital and boarded the jet for Tuscany, Mrs. De Luca’s case still burning in my chest and the thought of seeing Nina making it worse.
I didn’t even notice we’d landed until the attendant touched my arm. I stood, but the tension followed me, humming beneath my skin.
When I stepped off the plane, a white Jeep was already waiting for me. The driver greeted me with a respectful nod. “We’re off to Villa Luminara, Signore.”
I didn’t respond, only gave him a sharp nod before sliding into the back seat.
As the car rolled through the gates, I allowed myself a rare moment of quiet. Villa Luminara—a restored thirteenth-centuryestate—rose ahead, warm stone glowing in the evening light. Lucio and I had inherited it from our parents and transformed it into a luxury retreat. It was a labor of love, rebuilt with blood, sweat, and far more money than we liked to admit.
Still, it was only one piece of a much larger empire. Between us, we owned properties across Italy and around the world, each carefully managed, each strengthening a legacy that had more than quadrupled our net worth. Real estate was risky, but it was tangible, enduring—the kind of power that outlived you.
The car stopped. Staff stepped forward with smiles and a glass of Prosecco, which I waved away. Too wound up to pretend, I headed straight inside.
Rachel stood by the stairs, calm and composed, which was an odd contrast to the storm churning inside me.
In my suite, the view of the vast Tuscan fields and the soft sunlight through the windows gave me a moment of stillness, the mix of old charm and modern comfort always settling me.
Rachel turned, her eyes narrowing slightly, silently questioning me.
“Ask away, Rachel.”
She paused, then spoke, her voice measured. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, walking over to the vintage brown sofa. She followed, taking a seat.
Rachel Siva, my assistant for the past few years. Tall, brown-skinned, with black hair and brown eyes, she was efficient and never hesitated to put me in my place to get the job done. We were more friendly than strictly business, but I trusted her completely.
“I need you to arrange delivery of fifty bouquets of peonies from Giardino dei Fiori Rosa to Il Vento Elegante at three tomorrow afternoon,” I instructed.
