The alarm went off at five thirty.
Rosalina was already half awake.
She lay still for her usual three seconds — the only three seconds of the day that belonged entirely to her — then she sat up, swung her feet to the floor and got on with it.
Spain today.
A private jet.
Two days.
She said it to herself the way you said things you were still getting used to and went to get ready.
She was dressed and packed and standing in the kitchen making tea when Brian shuffled in wearing his pyjamas and his hair doing something interesting on one side of his head.
He looked at her bag by the door.
Then at her.
"You're really going," he said.
"I'm really going." She crossed to him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Eat your breakfast before you leave for school. And take your drugs Brian — all of them, not just the ones you like."
"I take all of them."
"You left the white one on the counter twice last week."
"I remembered eventually."
"Brian."
"Rosie." He looked up at her with those easy bright eyes. "I'm a big boy. I'll be fine."
She looked at him for a moment — at the colour in his face and the warmth in his eyes and the twelve year old confidence that she loved completely and worried about constantly.
"I know," she said quietly. "I know you will."
He patted her hand once — the gesture of a boy who had decided to be the mature one about this — and reached for an apple.
She watched him and felt the familiar thing move through her chest. The love and the worry sitting side by side the way they always did, inseparable, entirely his.
Betty appeared in the kitchen doorway with her natural hair loose and a cup of tea in her hand and the expression of a woman who had been awake just long enough to have opinions.
"Spain," she said warmly.
"Work trip," Rosalina said.
"Spain," Betty repeated, as though Rosalina hadn't said anything. "You are going to Spain today. On a private jet." She sipped her tea. "Have fun. Explore a little. Eat something that isn't from a hotel minibar."
"I'm going there to work Betty."
"You can work and still look at Spain, Rosie. The two are not mutually exclusive."
"Take care of Brian while I'm gone."
Betty looked at Brian.
Brian looked at Betty.
"She thinks I need taking care of," Brian said.
"I heard," Betty said.
"I'm a big boy," he added.
"You absolutely are," Betty agreed seriously. Then she looked at Rosalina with warm eyes. "Go. We'll be fine. Both of us — this big boy and me." She reached out and squeezed Rosalina's hand once. "Text me when you land."
Rosalina picked up her bag.
"Text me when he takes his drugs," she said.
"ROSIE," Brian said.
She was already smiling when Jeremy knocked at the door.
The hangar was not what she expected.
She had expected — she wasn't sure what she had expected. A small private airfield perhaps. One sleek jet parked neatly on a strip somewhere quiet.
What Jeremy drove her into instead was something else entirely.
The hangar was enormous. High ceilings and wide open space and the kind of organised, purposeful energy that came from people who took aviation the way the Salvatore family took everything — seriously and completely. Multiple aircraft sat at various points inside and around it. Staff moved with quiet efficiency along the edges. Security personnel stood at their posts with the unhurried vigilance that Rosalina was beginning to recognise as simply the way things worked in Enzo Salvatore's world.
She stepped out of the car and looked around.
How rich are these people, she thought. She had thought this before — at the headquarters, at the Gala, at the villa — and the answer kept getting larger every time.
Then she saw him.
He was standing near the jet speaking quietly to one of his team, one hand in the pocket of his slim fitted grey trousers, the other holding his phone at his side. A white Gucci shirt, clean and simple, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow the way she had learned meant he was in a working mood. The tattoos along his forearms were completely visible in the morning light — dark and precise and entirely distracting.
His hair was sleek and soft. His eyes, even from this distance, were that impossible green that had absolutely no business existing on a human face.
Casual Enzo, she thought. Again. Still doing this to her brain. Still.
She stood beside the car for exactly two seconds longer than necessary.
Then she straightened her spine, picked up her bag and walked toward him.
It was only then that she noticed the jet properly.
It was enormous. Bigger than she had imagined — though she realised now she hadn't known how to imagine it, having never seen one up close before. Sleek and dark and serious about itself in the way everything connected to this man was serious about itself. And there along the side, in clean precise letters that required no explanation:
SALVATORE.
Of course, she thought.
She stopped beside him.
"Good morning sir," she said.
He looked at her briefly. "Morning. Ready?"
"Yes."
He turned toward the jet.
She followed.
The interior of the jet stopped her for just a moment at the top of the steps.
Deep seats in cream leather that looked softer than anything she had ever sat on. Dark wood panels along the walls. Lighting that was warm and low and had clearly been chosen by someone who understood comfort. A bar area to one side. A corridor at the back leading somewhere she hadn't expected.
She sat down in one of the large seats and told herself to behave normally.
The pilot's voice came through the speakers — calm and clear, announcing their departure, asking them to prepare for takeoff.
And that was when it started.
It was small at first — a slight tightening in her chest, her hands finding each other in her lap. Then the engines began to build and the jet started to move and the tightening became something more and she gripped her own hands and looked at the window and told herself firmly that this was fine, this was completely fine, people did this every day—
"Your first time?"
She looked up.
Enzo was watching her from across the aisle with that calm steady gaze. Not amused. Not unkind. Just — attentive in the way he was attentive about everything.
"Traveling out of the country," he said. "First time?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I'm a little nervous."
He looked at her for a moment.
"You'll be fine," he said simply. "It's just like sitting in a room. The room moves. That's all."
She looked at him.
The room moves. That's all.
It was such a simple thing to say. He hadn't made a big deal of it. Hadn't listed statistics or told her flying was safer than driving or done any of the things people did when they were trying too hard to be reassuring.
Just — you'll be fine. The room moves.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Okay," he said, and looked back at his laptop.
The jet lifted and Rosalina held her breath for exactly the length of the climb and then — exhaled.
The room moved. That was all.
She looked out of the window at Milan getting smaller below them and felt something loosen in her chest.
The flight attendant appeared once they were level — neat and professional with a warm smile.
"Something to eat or drink?"
Rosalina ordered pasta and sparkling water and ate it quietly when it came, looking out of the window at the clouds with the particular feeling of someone experiencing something for the first time and wanting to pay attention to every part of it.
Across the aisle Enzo had a glass of red wine at his elbow that he sipped occasionally and largely ignored. His attention was entirely on his laptop — reading, typing, reviewing things with the focused stillness of a man who could work anywhere and intended to.
She looked at him once.
Then twice.
Then she looked at the clouds and told herself that was enough of that.
She finished eating, set her tray aside, and looked out of the window for a while longer. The clouds were extraordinary up here — thick and white and going on forever in every direction. She had never seen anything like it.
She thought she would try to stay awake.
She was asleep in twelve minutes.
"Miss Evans."
She opened her eyes.
The cabin was dim and quiet. Enzo was standing beside her seat with his hands in his pockets looking at her with the patient expression of a man who had been saying her name for more than once.
"There's a room," he said simply. "In the back. You'll be more comfortable."
She blinked. Sat up. Looked at him. "A room."
"On the jet."
"A room." She said it again. "On the jet."
Something moved very briefly across his face. "Yes Miss Evans. A bedroom. On the jet. Go and sleep properly."
She stood up — still slightly foggy — picked up her bag and followed the corridor to the back of the aircraft where there was, in fact, a proper bedroom. A real bed with real pillows and soft lighting and everything.
She lay down.
She was asleep before she finished being amazed by it.
"Miss Evans."
His voice again. Different this time — less patient, more something else. She opened her eyes to find the cabin light slightly brighter and Enzo standing in the doorway of the bedroom looking at her.
"We've landed," he said.
She sat up.
She looked at the window.
Dark outside. Evening sky over a city she had never seen before.
Spain.
She had slept all the way to Spain.
They stepped off the jet into the warm Spanish evening and Rosalina stopped at the bottom of the steps and just — breathed.
The air was different here. Warmer than Milan, softer somehow, carrying something she couldn't name but wanted to stand in for a moment.
Three cars were already waiting on the tarmac — black, sleek, engines running, drivers standing beside open doors with the quiet readiness of people who had been told exactly when to expect them and had not considered being late.
She looked at the cars. Then at the jet behind her. Then at the city lights beginning to appear in the distance.
"Miss Evans." Enzo was already moving toward the first car. "Come."
She came.
The Salvatore hotel in Barcelona was the kind of beautiful that made you stop moving for a second when you walked through the doors.
Marble floors. High ceilings with warm lighting. Staff who moved with the quiet efficiency of people who understood that their job was to make everything feel effortless for the guests. Fresh flowers on every surface. The kind of hotel that communicated, without saying a word, that you were somewhere that took itself seriously.
She thought about the small apartment with the third burner that didn't work.
She thought about Brian eating crackers and an egg and calling it a very good egg.
She straightened her spine and followed Enzo to the elevator.
Their rooms were on the same floor — across the corridor from each other. Enzo stopped at her door while she used her key card.
"Dinner is at eight," he said. "I'll come and get you."
"I'll be ready," she said.
He nodded once and crossed the corridor to his own door.
She went inside, set her bag down, and stood in the middle of a hotel room that was larger than her entire apartment and looked at the ceiling for a long quiet moment.
Spain, she thought.
She went to unpack.
Enzo's room was quiet and cool and exactly the kind of space he preferred — clean lines, nothing unnecessary, a desk positioned near the window where the city lights were already beginning to appear in the evening dark.
He set down his bag. Loosened his collar. Stood at the window for a moment with his hands in his pockets.
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Luca.
He picked up.
"Hey big head," Luca said.
"Wassup buddy." Enzo moved to the desk and sat down. "Just arrived in Spain."
A pause on Luca's end that contained several things.
"Care to tell me," Luca said pleasantly, "why you didn't take Giorgio this time around? Last I checked you never took Clara to any of your conference trips. Not once in three years." Another pause. "So what's different this time?"
"Rosalina is diligent in her work," Enzo said. "Fast. She handles things without being told twice. That's why I brought her."
"Giorgio is also diligent."
"Luca—"
"Giorgio is also fast. Giorgio also handles things without being told twice. Giorgio has been doing it for two years."
"Can you just drop it."
"I've dropped it." A beat.
"Don't you dare tell Matteo any of this. Or the twins."
"I won't." Luca's voice carried the specific warmth of a man smiling at his phone. "I'm not so sure about Giorgio though."
Enzo was quiet for a moment.
"That man," he said, with the measured calm of someone exercising considerable restraint, "should be grateful he's good at his work. Otherwise I would have fired his ass a long time ago."
Luca laughed — a real one, full and warm, the laugh of a man who had known Enzo Salvatore for twenty years and loved him completely. "Sure you would have."
"I would have."
"Absolutely." Luca collected himself. "Alright. Fill me in on the conference schedule. What are we looking at?"
They talked through it — clean and efficient, the way they talked through everything. Enzo gave him the full breakdown and Luca listened and asked the right questions and by the end of it everything was covered.
"Alright," Luca said finally. "Talk later. And Enzo—"
"Don't."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were."
A pause.
"Have a good trip," Luca said simply. And ended the call.
Enzo set his phone down on the desk.
He looked at the window.
At the city lights outside.
He sat in the quiet of the hotel room and thought — not about the conference, not about the Ferrara documents or the Barcelona team or any of the things that usually occupied every corner of his mind the moment he arrived somewhere new.
He thought about why he had brought Rosalina Evans to Spain instead of Giorgio.
Giorgio was excellent at his job. Giorgio had been managing the PA and secretary responsibilities simultaneously for a long while without complaint. There was no professional reason — not a single one — that would hold up under examination.
He turned his pen once between his fingers.
Then he stood up, went to shower, and got ready for dinner.
He knocked on her door at eight exactly.
It opened almost immediately.
She was ready — of course she was, she was always ready, punctuality was simply part of how Rosalina Evans moved through the world. A simple dark dress. Her blonde hair down. The gold eyes that he had — he stopped that thought where it was.
He looked at her for exactly one second in the way he looked at things he was making a decision about.
"Ready?" he said.
"Yes sir."
He turned toward the elevator.
"By the way," he said, not turning back. "You look good Miss Evans."
He pressed the elevator button.
Behind him there was a small silence that lasted about two seconds.
He did not turn around.
The elevator opened and he stepped in.
The hotel restaurant was on the top floor and it was, Rosalina thought as she settled into her seat across from Enzo, absolutely stunning.
Floor to ceiling windows on two sides showing Barcelona at night — lit up and sprawling and completely beautiful in the way cities were beautiful when you were seeing them for the first time from somewhere high up. Soft lighting at every table. The kind of quiet, elegant atmosphere that made you feel the whole world had agreed to slow down for this particular room.
She looked around at all of it.
The Salvatore are damn rich, she thought, for approximately the fourth time since yesterday morning. Truly, genuinely, incomprehensibly rich.
She opened her menu.
Enzo opened his.
They ate in the particular silence that she had learned over two months was simply how he existed in most spaces — comfortable on his side, slightly charged on hers, but not unpleasant. She had stopped fighting it weeks ago. Some silences didn't need filling.
The food was extraordinary.
She was halfway through her main course and thinking that this was actually, despite everything, a very good evening — when she heard a voice.
A specific voice.
The kind you recognised immediately not because you knew it well but because the last time you heard it, it had been warm on the surface and something else entirely underneath.
"Enzo."
Rosalina looked up.
Gabriella stood at the edge of their table.
She was beautiful — she was always beautiful, that was simply a fact about Gabriella that existed independent of everything else. A fitted burgundy dress. Dark hair loose. Moving toward Enzo with the confident ease of a woman who had decided she belonged wherever he was.
"What a pleasure running into you here," she said warmly.
She leaned down to kiss his cheek.
Enzo moved.
A small precise shift — barely anything, just enough — and her lips met air.
"I have a business conference Gabriella," he said. His voice was even. Not cold. Just — final in the particular way he was final about things.
Gabriella straightened. Her smile remained perfectly in place.
Her eyes moved to Rosalina.
"You had to bring her," she said lightly, "and not Giorgio."
Enzo looked at her.
When he spoke his voice was still low and still even and still required absolutely no volume to land with complete and total authority.
"Last I checked," he said quietly, "that's none of your f***ing business."
Something moved across Gabriella's face — quickly, controlled, the specific expression of a woman who had not gotten what she came for and was deciding how to leave with her dignity intact.
She looked at Rosalina.
And for the next few minutes — while the beautiful Barcelona night carried on outside the windows and the food on their plates went untouched and the lovely quiet dinner became something else entirely — Gabriella said several things to Rosalina in a warm pleasant voice that were not warm or pleasant underneath.
Each time, Enzo shut it down.
Quietly. Completely. Without raising his voice once.
Eventually Gabriella smiled — the full composed smile of a woman filing everything away for later — said enjoy your evening and walked away.
The table settled.
Rosalina looked at her plate.
Enzo picked up his fork and resumed eating as though nothing had happened — with the total composure of a man who had already moved on and considered the matter entirely closed.
Rosalina picked up her fork too.
The food was still extraordinary.
The view was still beautiful.
But the peaceful dinner they had been sitting in the middle of twenty minutes ago had become something else — something with edges to it, and questions she wasn't going to ask, and the specific discomfort of being looked at by a woman and understood to be a threat when you had spent two months telling yourself firmly that you were simply doing your job.
She looked at Barcelona through the window.
She ate her dinner.
And she filed it — all of it, the voice and the look and the thing Enzo had said without hesitating — carefully away in the folder she was always adding to and never quite finished with.
None of her business, she told herself.
She almost believed it.
*******