POV: CAMILLA
Camilla waited until morning.
She'd learned long ago that Lorenzo's anger burned hottest at night and cooled by breakfast, that the man who raged in his study after midnight was rarely the same man who sat with his espresso at seven, already thinking about the day's business instead of the previous night's grievances.
She found him exactly where she expected, at the small table on the east terrace, papers spread in front of him, untouched coffee going cold at his elbow.
"You didn't sleep," she said, settling into the chair across from him.
"I had calls to make," Lorenzo said, not looking up. "Antonio wanted an update on the situation. I told him things were being handled."
"Were they?" Camilla asked carefully. "Handled?"
Lorenzo finally looked up at her, his expression guarded in the way it always was when he suspected she was steering toward something.
"What do you want, Camilla?"
She'd learned, over thirty years, exactly how to answer that question.
