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‘Tonight.’ A decision he had just now made. Why stay? He couldn’t sleep here. Not knowing she was in the same city, close and yet untouchable. He needed land, water, miles between them.
‘I see. Will you—?’
His mobile chimed and he pulled it from his pocket, saw it was his PA calling and answered with a clipped greeting. He listened to Gina relay an urgent message from his second-in-command, then asked her to hold.
He glanced at Helena. ‘I need to take this,’ he said, and without waiting for an acknowledgement he moved through the French doors onto the balcony.
Ten minutes later Leo ended his call and turned away from the view. Instinctively, before he even stepped into the room, he knew Helena was gone.
Inside, the fragrance of her perfume lingered in the air—a bittersweet echo of her presence.
Relief, he reminded himself, but the cold, heavy weight pressing on his chest didn’t feel like relief. Nor did the sudden insane urge to run after her.
He flung himself into a recliner and closed his eyes. When he opened them long minutes later his gaze landed on a small unsealed envelope on the coffee table. Frowning, he reached for it, lifted the flap and removed the single item from within.
A photo of their son.
The one he had studied so intently the night before.
He turned it over, and as he read the neat lines of handwriting on the back his eyes started to burn.
He was special because we made him.
Carry him in your heart, as I do in mine.
I love you—and I’m sorry.
H.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘LEONARDO VINCENTI, ARE you listening to me?’
Marietta’s voice, sharp with exasperation, jerked Leo from his thoughts. He looked up from the dregs of his espresso, guilt pricking him. ‘Sorry, carina.’
His sister’s expression softened. ‘You were miles away.’
He pushed his empty cup aside and cursed himself. This was Marietta’s night. He’d brought her to her favourite restaurant in the upmarket Parioli district of Rome to celebrate the lucrative sale of two of her paintings, and yet all he’d managed to do was put a dampener on the occasion.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
‘Nothing is wrong.’ If he didn’t count the fact that he hadn’t slept in weeks. Or eaten properly. Or achieved anything more productive than pushing paperwork from one side of his desk to the other.
‘Something is going on with you.’ She leaned in, elbows propped on the table, eyes searching his. ‘Talk to me.’
Marietta’s sweet-natured concern only amplified his guilt. He forced a smile. ‘Tell me about this loft you found.’
She frowned at him, but she didn’t push. Instead she said, ‘It’s perfect. Lots of natural light and open space.’ A spark of excitement lit her eyes. ‘And there’s a car park and a lift, so access isn’t a problem.’
His sister had searched for months for a space she could purchase and convert into a dedicated art studio. The need for wheelchair access had made the search more difficult, but she’d tackled the challenge with the same determination she applied to everything in her life.
Pride swelled. ‘How much do you need for it?’
Her frown reappeared. She sat back. ‘I have money saved for a deposit. I don’t need a loan, Leo.’
‘Of course not.’ As if he’d ever loan his sister money and expect her to repay him. He could afford to buy her ten studios—one was hardly an imposition. ‘You’ll need a notary for the purchase contract. I’ll call Alex in the morning.’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘You’re doing it again.’
