The air in New York didn't feel like home anymore.
It hadn't for a long time.
The Romano estate still looked the same — sprawling stone walls, dark iron gates, manicured lawns that demanded respect — but something about it felt distant now. Like a memory I'd outgrown.
Or maybe I'd just gotten used to the warmth of LA.
I was used to the sunlight, the quiet and even the way Mira's voice filled every room we lived in.
Now everything here felt cold.
I stepped out of the black town car and adjusted my coat. The late afternoon wind cut through me, sharp enough to make the trees along the driveway tremble.
Donna had asked me to come.
Which meant I was obligated to show up.
But being here didn't sit right in my chest. Not anymore. It felt very different.
The front door opened before I reached it.
And there he was.
Alejandro Valencia.
