All Chapters of Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

“Thank you for accommodating us on short notice,” he said.I released his hand. “We’re used to handling impolite schedules.”Rafael didn’t smile. He wasn’t offended. He wasn’t amused. He simply accepted the sentence as data.That was stranger than if he had insulted my outfit.Alessandra sat first, of course in the chair facing the prettiest mood board. Rafael remained standing for a moment. His phone vibrated in his hand. He looked at the screen.“Alessandra,” he said, “I need to take the board call.”Alessandra turned, raising one eyebrow slightly. “Now?”“Zurich moved the time.” Rafael looked at me. “Ms. Garcia, Alessandra has full authority over the creative direction. My office will send any required security notes. I’ll review access protocols separately.”Separately.The word dropped onto the table like a metal coin.I laced my fingers together in front of the folder. “Of course.”“Thank you.”He gave a short nod.Then left.Just like that.Without looking back.Without a singl

San Francisco passed by in gray fragments: tall houses, steep streets, a bakery with a line of people who believed croissants could fix their lives, couples in fleece jackets walking dogs that looked more emotionally stable than I was.In the window reflection, I saw my own face.Still put together.Lip liner still holding.Mascara still in place.Good. At least one commitment in my life hadn’t failed.The car stopped in front of my house at eleven thirty.Thirty minutes before lunch.In theory.In a house with two four-year-olds, lunch was not a time. Lunch was an international negotiation with tomato sauce as a biological threat.I had barely opened the front door when something small, fast, and extremely loud shot from the living room into the hallway.“NOOOO, AL! GIVE BACK MY CROWN!”Gabby.Then Al ran past two seconds later, his little feet slamming against the wooden floor, black hair a mess, his dinosaur pajamas replaced by a yellow T-shirt with a stain I hoped was apple juice

Two hours later, I was standing inside the San Francisco private terminal wearing ivory wide-leg trousers, a fitted thin black turtleneck, a long camel coat, my hair in a low bun far neater than my mental state, and oversized sunglasses that made me look like a woman who could buy an island just to avoid small talk.Dianna stood beside me with her iPad, a cream blazer, and the face of someone who had not slept enough but would still die with a clean agenda.Jemima, our production lead, was checking two hard cases filled with sample boards, a tape measure, a laser distance meter, markers, technical folders, and possibly a small weapon if left alone with vendors for too long. Jemima was thirty-four, with short black hair, sharp eyes, and a way of speaking like a woman who could build a temporary structure in the middle of a storm and still find time to criticize the catering.Marie from legal stood slightly apart in a gray suit, thin glasses, carrying a folder that looked like it held e

“MAMI! AL THREW UP IN TÍA TARA’S PLANE!”The sentence landed on Villa Miravento’s terrace with all the grace of a refrigerator falling off a balcony.No one moved.Even the birds, if there were any, probably filed for leave.I stared at Gabriella.Gabriella stared back at me from behind her crooked purple sunglasses, her small chin lifted, the pink glitter crown sparkling under the Los Angeles sun like a tax threat. Behind her, Al was still crying while hugging his whale shark to his chest. His cheeks were red. His shirt was wrinkled. There was a small stain near the collar that I decided I would not identify in front of my amnesiac ex-husband, who was also the future groom.Kendra stood beside them, white-faced. Tara slowly took off her sunglasses. Arsen lifted one hand like a man trying to calm the TSA, the FBI, and a Latin mother at the same time.Dianna looked like her soul had just left her body, assessed the situation, and decided not to come back.Valentina blinked once.Rafael

Rafael blinked. “No,” he said. “Not with me.”“Hmm.” Gabby folded her little arms across her chest. “Then I call you Rafa Lemon.”There was a pause.I waited for Rafael to take offense, or go cold. Or give her the look that used to make junior analysts in Milan consider a career in tomato farming.Instead, he slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and crouched down until he was closer to Gabby’s eye level.Something shifted in my chest, like a chair being dragged across an empty room.Gentleness had never come easily to him. Not even before. Even when he touched me at his softest, there had always been control in it. Always something held back.But now he was standing in front of my daughter—his daughter, damn it, don’t think about that—and there was no coldness in his face. Only focus. Calm. It was strange watching a man who didn’t remember ever being a father stand inches from his own kid and somehow still not frighten her.“Rafa Lemon,” he repeated.Gabby nodded. “Better.”“Y