Chapter 8 - The Lake House
Three weeks later, the private jet touched down in Florence.
The estate in the hills above Lucca was everything the New York compound had not been. It was built of golden sandstone, surrounded by terraced olive groves, lemon trees heavy with fruit, and fields of wild lavender that buzzed with bees. The windows had no iron bars; the doors had no deadbolts.
The bodyguards were gone, replaced by three local Italian women who baked bread in the outdoor wood-fired oven and sang folk songs that drifted through the open windows.
Becca stood on the terracotta terrace, watching the girls race through the olive trees. They were laughing.
It was a sound she had never heard before—a bright, tumbling, musical noise that echoed off the stone walls of the valley. Nova tripped over an exposed root, fell into the soft grass, and instead of freezing in terror, she simply rolled onto her back and giggled, waiting for Stella to pull her up.
Valentino walked out onto the terrace, carrying two small glasses of limoncello. He wore linen trousers and a loose white shirt, looking ten years younger. The dark circles under his eyes had faded; his skin had taken on the warm bronze of the Tuscan sun.
"They're loud," he said, handing her a glass with a faint smirk. "I never realized how much noise three six-year-olds could make."
"That's the sound of normal life, Valentino," Becca said, sipping the sweet, fiery liqueur. "Get used to it. Soon they'll be teenagers, and then the noise will be slammed doors and loud music."
Valentino chuckled, leaning his hip against the stone balustrade. "I think I can handle slammed doors. Compared to the five families of New York, teenage girls shouldn't be too difficult."
"Don't underestimate them," she warned, smiling. "They have your stubbornness."
They stood in comfortable silence for a long while, watching the sun dip toward the Mediterranean horizon, painting the sky in violent streaks of apricot, violet, and gold.
"You haven't mentioned going back to New York," Valentino observed softly, his eyes tracking the light playing across her face.
"My landlord rented my apartment to someone else," Becca replied, looking down at her glass. "Philippe hired two new waitresses. And Columbia University sent me a letter saying my tuition has been paid in full through a private endowment, with an offer to complete my master’s thesis remotely."
She looked at him with an arched eyebrow. "Would you happen to know anything about that anonymous endowment, Mr. Duca?"
"A philanthropist must support the sciences," he said smoothly, without a trace of guilt. "Child psychology is a very noble field. Particularly trauma recovery."
"You're incorrigible."
"I am a man who protects his family," he said, the teasing tone vanishing, replaced by that intense, magnetic gravity that had captivated her from the moment they met. He set his glass down on the stone railing and stepped into her personal space. "Did you find an answer to my question, Becca?"
Her pulse quickened. "Which question?"
"What you want to be to me."
Becca looked into his deep brown eyes. The predator was still in there, buried deep beneath the linen and the sunlight, but it was a predator that had laid down its weapons, choosing peace over power.
"I spent my whole life trying to fix broken things, Valentino," she said softly. "My father, my patients, myself. I thought I had to stay detached. A clinician observing subjects through glass."
She reached out, laying her palm against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath the linen.
"You and those girls didn't let me stay behind the glass," she whispered. "You dragged me into the room with you."
"Is that a yes?" he asked, his hands coming up to rest on her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"It’s a yes," she breathed.
May you like
When he kissed her, it was not with the violence of the world he had left behind, but with the reverence of a man who had walked through the valley of the shadow of death and finally found the dawn.
***
