Chapter 15 #3
I needed to find a way to contact him—not just to reunite, not just to fall back into the dangerous comfort of his arms, but because the war breathing down our necks had grown teeth.
Tensions between the Spanish and Italian factions were no longer simmering; they were boiling over.
And the latest poison in the wound? Rafael’s own blood brother had switched camps.
Moved his entire crew to the Italian side.
Betrayal on that level didn’t just escalate a war. It made it apocalyptic.
I needed Vincenzo now more than ever.
“Can you fly me to Italy?” I asked suddenly.
Ramiro turned toward me sharply.
“Why?”
“My brother,” I said, swallowing. “I need to talk to him. In person.”
I stepped closer before I could second-guess myself.
His expression shifted immediately.
“In all honesty, I don’t think my marriage to Rafael will continue to remain secret,” I said quickly, pushing through before he could interrupt.
I steadied myself. “And if anything, it shouldn’t have been hidden in the first place.”
“It’s a union between an Italian—me—and a Spaniard, Rafael,” I said, holding my ground. “It shouldn’t be sparking a war. If anything, it should be bridging the divide between both sides.”
A breath.
“I need to tell Vincenzo I’m married to Rafael—and that he needs to step in. He has to talk to the Italian rebels here, make them see reason before blood is spilled.”
Ramiro shook his head once, regret already softening his features.
“I cannot act on my own authority, Loretta,” he said firmly. “You must speak to Rafael first. If he approves, I will arrange the flight immediately.”
His tone lowered slightly.
“Otherwise, I strongly advise you to keep your routine predictable and limited.”
He glanced at his watch.
“I must leave now. Stay safe.”
And just like Rafael earlier—
he turned and walked away.
The sound of his footsteps faded quickly, leaving me standing alone in the center of the vast living room.
The space felt different now.
I slowly exhaled, my gaze drifting toward the corridor Rafael had disappeared into.
Everything inside me felt stretched thin.
A thought surfaced suddenly—small at first, then sharpening into something usable.
My old phone number.
The Italian line.
Vincenzo still knew it. He had always relied on it, even after I changed everything else. It was one of the few threads I had never completely severed, even unintentionally. If I reactivated it...
Maybe he would reach out first.
Maybe I wouldn’t need to chase him into the chaos directly.
I didn’t waste time second-guessing it.
I pulled out my phone immediately and called Ramiro.
He answered almost instantly.
“Yes, Loretta?”
“I need your help with something urgent,” I said, pacing slightly as I spoke. “Can you retrieve and reactivate my old phone line? The number I used before everything changed. I’ll text you the details right now.”
My fingers moved quickly, sending him the carrier information and the old number before doubt could slow me down.
“This is important,” I added firmly. “Please make it happen as fast as possible. It could help de-escalate this situation.”
There was a brief pause on the line.
Then, “Consider it done,” Ramiro replied without delay. “The SIM should be active within twenty-four hours.”
Relief washed through me instantly.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
The call ended.
I stood there for a moment, phone still in my hand, letting the weight of the decision settle.
A small hope now existed in the chaos.
But hope, I was learning, didn’t mean safety.
It just meant waiting.
And praying nothing shattered before it had a chance to work.
I exhaled slowly and began walking deeper into the house, my steps quieter now, more thoughtful.
The mansion no longer felt like a maze I couldn’t navigate—it felt like a structure I was beginning to understand too well.
And that understanding unsettled me.
I was heading toward my room when something pulled at me.
A door.
Small. Unassuming. Slightly set back beside my bedroom.
I stopped.
While I had been blind, I had passed it countless times without even realizing it existed.
It had blended into the architecture, just another part of the endless, polished symmetry of this house.
Now—
I saw it clearly.
And it stood out in a way that made my chest tighten faintly.
I didn’t remember ever being told what was inside.
Or if anyone had told me at all.
Curiosity won before caution could intervene.
I reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
The moment I stepped inside—
The air changed.
Then I saw it.
And my breath caught.
The room wasn’t just a room.
It was preservation.
A shrine.
Zara.
Her presence was everywhere.
Elegant designer dresses lined the walls in perfect, obsessive order—silk evening gowns that shimmered faintly under the light, cashmere sweaters folded with precision, tailored blouses still holding the shape of her life.
The fabrics looked untouched, yet not abandoned.
Cared for. Protected.
As if someone expected her to come back and wear them again.
A faint floral scent lingered in the air.
Soft. Feminine.
Familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.
Glass display cases stood against one wall, filled with jewelry that caught the light like fragments of memory—diamond necklaces, emerald drop earrings, sapphire bracelets, each piece arranged with almost reverent care.
In the center, a delicate gold locket rested on velvet, engraved with intricate vines curling around its surface like something alive.
Nothing here felt random.
Nothing here felt temporary.
Even the smallest objects told a story.
A half-empty bottle of perfume sat carefully placed on a vanity table, as if it had only been set down moments ago.
Love notes written in elegant handwriting rested beneath a glass frame, the paper thick and expensive, the ink slightly faded but still intact.
And then—
The journals.
Several leather-bound pregnancy journals stacked neatly on an antique table, their spines worn from handling, their pages heavy with meaning I could already feel before opening them.
A chill crawled up my spine.
This wasn’t storage. It wasn’t even memory.
It was worship.
I moved deeper into the room despite myself, my footsteps slower now, almost reluctant.
My fingers trembled slightly as I reached out, brushing against the silk of one dress.
The fabric was impossibly soft, cool beneath my touch, as if it had been waiting for years to be worn again.
I hesitated—then lifted the scarf to my nose.
The scent hit immediately.
Soft floral notes.
My throat tightened before I could stop it.
I let it fall back gently, my gaze drifting across the walls.
Photographs.
So many of them.
On the low antique table sat three thick albums.
My hands moved before I fully decided to open one.
The first page alone changed everything.
A beautiful, slender woman—undeniably Zara.
She looked alive in a way that made the air feel heavier just looking at her, as though even paper couldn’t diminish the force of her presence.
She was breathtaking.
Page after page, she filled the album.
Smiling. Laughing. Growing.
Pregnancy photos dominated the middle sections.
Her hands cradling her belly with quiet tenderness, her expression soft in a way that made my chest ache unexpectedly.
In one image, she stood barefoot in a sunlit garden, hair loose around her face.
And then—
Rafael.
Kneeling in front of her.
Pressing a kiss to her stomach.
The man in the photograph looked like someone else entirely.
His usual cold precision was gone. His face was unguarded, younger in a way that had nothing to do with age.
He was smiling—actually smiling—in a way that reached his eyes and softened every hard line I had ever seen on him.
It didn’t look like the man I knew.
It looked like a man who had been allowed to exist without armor.
Another page.
Rafael carrying Zara bridal-style through a field of blooming roses, both of them laughing openly, their faces turned toward each other like nothing else in the world mattered.
My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the album.
I kept turning pages.
Family photos followed.
Rafael, Zara, and baby Tess.
One month old—wrapped in soft pink blankets, tiny and fragile in a luxurious nursery that looked more like a palace than a room.
Two months—on a private beach, turquoise waves crashing behind them as Zara held Tess close and Rafael stood beside them, one hand steady on his daughter’s back.
One year old—Tess taking her first unsteady steps across a sunlit terrace, Rafael crouched low, holding her tiny hands while Zara clapped nearby, laughing.
Every image showed the same thing.
A man I had never met.
Not truly. Not like this.
Rafael in those photographs wasn’t the man who coldly told me to know my place.
He wasn’t the man who spoke of loyalty like it was a weapon.
He wasn’t even the man who held my face with controlled rage.
He was softer.
Alive in a way that made something unfamiliar twist painfully inside me.
And Zara—
Against everything I had been told about their marriage, against the claim that there had been no love between them, these photographs told a different truth.
She hadn’t just been someone he once cared for.
She had altered the way he existed.
The way he looked.
The way he stood.
The way he lived inside every moment that followed her.
Did he have a reason for caring about her this much... or was it simply natural?
I was still lost in the photographs when the door burst open with violent force.
The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
I barely had time to react before Rafael was inside.
He moved like a storm given human form.
In one swift motion, he crossed the distance between us and snatched the album straight from my hands.
The sudden emptiness left my fingers suspended in the air.
My heartbeat slammed against my ribs as I looked up at him.
His expression had changed completely.