“Istituto di Moda Bellafonte. It’s private, the biggest, one of the best. But there’s a problem… private fashion schools tend to not accept students who can’t afford the tuition.”
“What do you know about this school?”
Avo rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “The current headmistress is Signora Beatrice Rinaldi.”
I frowned, the name tugging at some distant memory. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“She was a friend of…” He paused, as if observing his next words.
“Of who?”
“Your father.” He held my gaze, studying my reaction.
“Ah.” I let the information settle over me, stirring memories of my father. I’d always steered clear of those connections unless absolutely necessary, and this was one of those times.
I leaned forward, my determination solidifying. “Make sure she gets in.”
His eyes softened with empathy, but he shook his head. “Ronan, you know I can’t guarantee that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He frowned and brought the glass to his lips.
“I’ll do it myself, then.” My voice came out low and resolute, the kind that dared anyone to challenge me.
Avo leaned back, his gaze skeptical, his tone cool. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that,ragazzo?3”
I shot to my feet, the scrape of my chair against the cobblestone drawing a few curious glances our way. A grin tugged at my lips, edged with defiance. “Everyone has a price.”
Without another word, I strode out of the café, my decision burning inside me like a fire. The afternoon sun bore down, hot and unforgiving, but I barely noticed. The city blurred as I moved, every step fixed on one thing and one thing only:securing Nina’s future.
As I neared the gates of the school, I saw her. A light blue sundress fluttered around her, rich dark skin glowing in the afternoon sun as she laughed with a group of students. Her knotless braids spilled down her back, sleek and elegant, swaying every time she moved, like they always did when she was happy.
Of course, she was wearing braids.
They’d always been her favorite.
My chest tightened, breath catching.
She looked radiant—carefree, untouched by the ghosts still haunting me. Seeing her like this, so full of light, only confirmed what I already knew: leaving had been the right choice. My grief and my darkness would have only dulled her shine.
I stood there, drinking in the sight of her for a few seconds longer, letting it carve through me like a dull blade. Then, with a heart that felt like it was breaking all over again, I forced myself to turn away and walked toward the headmistress’s office.
The door swung open, revealing Signora Beatrice Rinaldi—elegant in her sixties, silver hair pinned back, sharp eyes peering over her glasses. She had known my parents well, and her expression softened at the sight of me.
“Ronan, it has been a long while,” she greeted warmly, extending a hand. “Please, come in.”
“Signora Rinaldi,” I acknowledged, shaking her hand firmly before stepping into the office. The room exuded an air of authority and tradition, with framed photographs and accolades lining the wall.
We took our seats, and she studied me over the rim of her glasses. “How are you?”
Before I could answer, she launched into a warm stream of memories—my father’s sharp mind and my mother’s wit, the trouble he used to get into in school, how she’d stood in the front row at my parents’ wedding with tears in her eyes. Her voice softened as she spoke, nostalgia thickening every word.
“I miss him too,” I said quietly. “I miss them both.”
Her expression shifted—sadness flickering across her face before she smoothed it away with a gentle smile. Then she leaned forward, hands folding neatly on the desk.
“So, Ronan… What brings you here today? What can I do for you?”
