POV RACHELLEThe return to Milan was not the triumphant procession the press expected. It was a phantom arrival, executed under the cover of a torrential spring storm that turned the city’s skyline into a blurred watercolor of grey and charcoal.As the private jet touched down at Linate, I sat in the darkened cabin, my hand resting on Violetta’s shoulder. The girl was asleep, her head pillowed on a stack of silk swatches from my upcoming collection. She looked so small, so fragile, yet she carried the weight of an empire in the silver locket clutched in her hand."She’s a Veronesi, through and through," Nikolai said softly from the seat across from me. He was nursing a glass of scotch, his shoulder bandaged properly now, but the fatigue in his eyes was a deep, structural thing. "She didn't cry once during the extraction. Not even when the hull of the boat took a hit from the harbor patrol.""She’s been raised by a shark, Nikolai," I said, my gaze fixed on the rain streaking across the
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