Chapter Seven
RONAN
Present Day
NEW YORK CITY
The peonies swayed gently under the soft glow of the garden lights, their clustered petals casting delicate shadows against the dark.
Nina used to say they were just like us—fragile when pulled apart but unbreakable together.
I hadn’t understood what she meant back then.
Her words were a melody I couldn’t decipher, lost beneath the lull of her voice, the reverence in her touch as her fingers brushed the petals like a whispered prayer. But now, I understood.
That was why I bought this place. Not only for the ice cream shop or the garden attached to it, but for the peonies. They had been here long before me, growing in wild, beautiful clusters, like she loved. Like we had been… once.
Now, standing in the middle of The Flower Garden, I let my gaze linger on them, half-hoping, half-praying somehow, wherever she was, she could feel it too. That she knew I never stopped holding on.
Just then, Dillon’s voice rang out behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned, crossing my arms as I took in his easy grin.
“Everything’s all set,” I said, though I still wasn’t sure what I’d signed up for. “You owe me for this one.”
“Thanks, Ro,” Dillon replied, a glint of mischief in his eyes. He didn’t even try to hide it.
I shook my head, feigning exasperation. “Do I even want to know why I closed down my ice-cream park for you? I’m losing a lot of money here, Xander.”
He waved it off with his usual confidence. “Relax. You’ll make twice as much within the next few minutes.”
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “This gathering of yours has to take place here?”
“Yes,” he replied, not the least bit apologetic.
Typical. I studied him for a moment, noticing the way he couldn’t hide the flash of excitement in his eyes. I’d bet good money this had everything to do with the five-foot-six obsession that recently walked into his office as an intern.
I shook my head, finally letting a smirk slip through. “Don’t burn the place down, alright?”
Dillon chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
With a final glance back, I left him laughing, his voice fading as I made my way to the airfield.
My mind was already in Italy—on business, yes, but also on Nina’s show.
I remembered every late-night talk about her dream school, every sketch she shared, the way her eyes lit up at the thought of a real show.
And now, she wasn’t only attending one—she was hosting.
I had to be there, front row, as I’d promised her years ago.
I once thought the hardest part was waking up each morning, mustering enough courage to face the world.
But I was wrong. The hardest thing was living with only the whispers of her, the echo of her laughter that lingered like a ghost, and the phantom warmth of her touch still brushing against my skin.
I clung to that worn photograph in my wallet, to remember how her smile once lit up my life. I closed my eyes, reaching for the scent of her hair and the softness in her gaze when she looked at me.
“Sir.” The flight attendant’s voice pulled me back. “We’ll be stopping in Milan for your patient visit, then departing for Tuscany promptly at five to ensure your timely arrival.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
She nodded confidently. “Absolutely, sir. May I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
With a polite smile, she walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Needing a distraction, I called Rachel, my assistant, who had arrived in Italy a day earlier. She answered on the first ring, confirming everything was set for my arrival.
With that reassurance, I leaned back in my seat, letting the steady rhythm of the jet and the passing hours blur together.
Nine hours later, my jet touched down in Milan. As soon as I stepped out, I was met with a sea of reporters and flashing cameras, their voices blending into the background noise of the city.
I’ve always loved Milan—its grand buildings, like the Duomo and the sweeping architecture blending history with modernity, the luxury shops lining every street, and the vibrant energy of the city. But only a patient mattered at this moment.
The letter was handwritten, unexpected, and enough to pull me here before anything else.
Before deciding to go, I reached out to the head doctors there, and they gave me the go-ahead to step in.
The medical board at General Wellness questioned my decision and asked what I stood to gain.
But what mattered more than saving a life?
I’d built a name for myself in oncology, especially with cancer and dialysis patients.
Still, as I stepped into Ospedale San Luminato, San Luminato Hospital, a familiar knot of nerves tightened in my stomach.
I forced it down and followed as my equipment was carried inside.
I was greeted warmly by one of the senior doctors and nurses, given a brief welcome, and walked to the quiet room where Mrs. De Luca—the patient I needed to see—waited.
She was fragile but determined, her blue eyes filled with a strength that reminded me of someone I’d once loved.
My mother.
This wasn’t about money or recognition. It was about honoring the fight.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. De Luca.”
“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-century estate—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.
Without missing a beat, she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “Should I add a name to the card?”
“Nina Moretti. Leave the sender anonymous,” I replied. “And add another donation to the fashion show we’re attending later. Make it two million.”
Her eyes widened for a brief moment, an unusual crack in her composed demeanor. “Two million euros? For a… fashion show?”
“Two million euros for her fashion show,” I clarified, keeping my tone steady. “Let me know when it’s arranged. We leave at six-thirty tomorrow. The show starts at eight, and I want us there early.”
She nodded and swiftly dialed as she exited to handle the details.
“One last thing, Rachel,” I called after her. “You scheduled all the media outlets, right?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, glancing back. “I also called in your favor with Federico Ortega.”
My head snapped up at the mention of the name. Federico Ortega, the Spanish billionaire and fashion mogul—a pioneer in the industry, whose daughter I’d once treated and helped with recovery.
“He’ll be there?” I asked, surprised.
“Him and his entire team,” she replied. “He said he’d do anything for you.”
I smiled faintly, satisfaction settling in. “Tomorrow will be great. Everything she deserves.”