And yet I had once dreamed of stargazing with him in the Alps—a stolen moment away from the shadows that governed our lives. I had planned the itinerary down to the smallest detail. He said he was too busy. Every time, that was the excuse: too busy.
Now I finally understood the truth that had been staring me in the face all along. He could be romantic. He could be tender and devoted. He just never chose to be that way with me.
I set the phone down on the starched hospital sheets, trying to blink back the sting behind my eyes.
That's when I noticed the envelope sitting quietly on the bedside table, cream-colored and expensive.
Inside it was a plane ticket. Departure in two days.
And a small note, written in an elegant hand:
[You're welcome. Hope you like the gift. For your wedding —V.]
So I was right. The man who had carried me through the darkness and delivered me to safety was none other than Vittorio Falcone—the ghost who had returned from the dead to become Colino's worst enemy.
I texted him a quiet thank-you, my fingers hovering over the keys longer than necessary, and checked myself out not long after.