Chapter One
RONAN
Four Years Earlier
ITALY
Itraced the rim of my espresso cup, coffee mingling with the scent of fresh pastries and the hum of lively chatter.
Across from me sat Avo, a robust man in his early fifties, his lined face reflecting both hard-won wisdom and burdens.
His sharp eyes held a surprising softness, belying his gruff exterior.
Once my father’s closest friend, now mine.
He raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Espresso, huh? That’s new. You used to be more of a scotch guy.”
I shrugged, wrapping my hand tighter around the small cup as if it held more than a drink. “Nina loves espresso.”
Avo’s smile faded. “It’s been a year, and you still think about her every time you drink a cup.”
The problem with what he said? It wasn’t only when I had a cup in my hands—I thought about her all the time.
“Yeah.” The word was as bitter as the espresso I couldn’t seem to quit. But the truth was, each cup felt like a thread connecting me to her. A thread I wasn’t ready to cut. “Some things never change, and this is one of them.”
He leaned back, arms crossed, his deep voice steady but edged with concern. “She applied to a fashion school.”
“Which school?”
“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?”
“I need a favor.”
One eyebrow lifted, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“Go on.”
“A student has applied here. Nina Moretti. I need you to make sure she gets in.”
Her expression grew contemplative as she leaned back in her chair. “I can’t simply admit a student based on a request, Ronan. The process must be fair and rigorous.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my checkbook, flipping it open. “Name your price.”
She gulped, momentarily taken aback by the directness of my offer. After a brief hesitation, she called for her assistant. “Bring me the application for Nina Moretti.”
The assistant returned with a folder, handing it to Signora Rinaldi, who opened it without hesitation. “Nina is applying for one of our most prestigious and expensive programs,” she said, glancing up at me. “This is not a small favor.”
I met her gaze unflinchingly. “The price?”
She sighed, her gaze lingering on the documents. “Say I accept her. The tuition fees… how will they be paid?”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “There isn’t a price too high to ensure her happiness.”
Signora Rinaldi left me alone in her office for what felt like an eternity, but was likely only half an hour. Memories of Nina—her laughter, dreams, and loving gaze—resurfaced, mingling pain with the hope of securing her future.
Fashion had always been her dream. I remembered the way her eyes lit up when she talked about designing and the passion she put into every sketch and creation. To her, fashion wasn’t simply about clothes; it was a form of self-expression and a way to tell her story.
Seeing her happy and thriving in this world meant everything to me. If staying away was the price of her joy, I would pay it a thousand times over. Even if it broke me, her happiness would always matter more than my own.
She returned with a neat stack of documents outlining the tuition and fees, setting them in front of me.
One glance was all it took. I reached for my pen and wrote a check for seventy thousand euros to cover Nina’s tuition, housing, and books, then a second for thirty thousand euros toward the school’s development fund.
“I need Nina to get in,” I said firmly, my voice steady but filled with the gravity of my request.
She took the cheques, her expression one of reluctant acceptance. “It’s done. She can expect her acceptance letter later this week.”
A wave of relief washed over me, but it was tinged with the bittersweet realization of the distance between us. “Thank you, and keep it anonymous.”
As I stood to leave, she stopped me. “I reviewed her application and saw her designs. Sono incredibili.4 She’s going to high places with talent like this.”
I smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through me. “I’m well aware of her talent,” I replied, pride and a lingering sadness mingling in my chest as I left the office.