Whatever had happened earlier must have unsettled them both. Giancarlo and Salvatore moved quickly, almost falling over each other to open the door for me, to take my coat. Their gestures carried the stiff courtesy of men who sensed they had committed an offense but could not name it.
Giancarlo's voice was bright, almost boyish, as he swept his hand toward the iron gates ahead. "Seraphina, look. Do you recognize it? This is the old grove. The place where the three of us used to hide when we were children." His eyes glinted in the low light. "Salvatore and I pooled our resources and bought the entire parcel. From now on, this is ours. Our territory. Our secret."
Salvatore gave a single, firm nod. "I had someone plant tulips across the eastern slope. Your favorites. By next spring, the whole hillside will be covered in them. A sea of color."
"And then the four of us can come here," Giancarlo continued, his smile widening. "Drive out on a Sunday afternoon, walk through the flowers, forget the rest of the world exists."
Their faces were open, unguarded, full of a future they had already written in their heads.
I stared at the dark stretch of land beyond the gates for a long time. I said nothing. It was true that this grove had once been our sanctuary. The three of us had played here as children, hiding from our families' wars, pretending we were ordinary. Those memories were real. They were the last pure things I owned.
But I had never liked tulips.
I was allergic to pollen. All pollen. They would have known this if they had ever truly looked at me.
Before the thought could settle, the sky above us shattered into light. Fireworks erupted in great cascading arcs, painting the darkness in golds and silvers and deep Genovese crimson. The bursts arranged themselves into letters, spelling my name across the heavens like a declaration of war dressed as a love song.
In the glow of that manufactured dream, Giancarlo reached into his jacket and produced a small velvet box. He opened it. Inside, nestled against black silk, sat a ring. Old gold. A blood-red ruby flanked by two smaller diamonds. The kind of piece that carried generations inside its setting.