PROLOGUE
Valentina
---
The De Luca mansion is in full swing — music pulsing through glass walls, waiters weaving between marble columns with endless trays of champagne. Expensive, fake laughter bounces off the crystal chandeliers.
My mother planned the party like it was a business gala, not her only daughter's fifteenth birthday. The entire house glittering with pearls, glass, and things no one here deserves.
My father barely glances at me. He's locked in with some politician — probably closing another dirty deal to keep us richer and untouchable. He doesn't even pause to say happy birthday. To him, I'm not a daughter. Just another line in the De Luca ledger. Another investment.
Then there's Leo — my brother, the golden child. Always saying the right thing. Standing straight. Making sure the De Luca name stays clean, feared, respected. We were inseparable once. He used to laugh, really laugh. Now his smile is a mask he wears for everyone but me — and sometimes, not even me.
The garden is the only place this house can't ruin.
I sit on the old swing in my designer dress, legs tucked under me, staring at the grass like it might open up and swallow me whole. Inside, men in tuxedos talk money over aged scotch, women glitter in diamonds, and no one notices the teenage girl slipping out of her own life.
Not that they ever did.
I should care. I should play the part. Smile pretty. Stand next to my mother like a prop.
But I don't.
And that's what I hate about these people — they all know exactly who they're supposed to be.
I never have.
Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever figure it out. What I want. Who I'm supposed to trust — if anyone.
And then there are moments like now — when I see someone like Matteo — Leo's best friend. Always cold. Always unreadable. Leaning against the far garden wall like he owns the night.
And I don't know what I feel at all.
---
"You always run when it gets loud?"
His voice breaks the dark — low, rough.
Matteo stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes on me like he's seeing something I don't show anyone. I don't know how he moves so quietly. Or why he's out here. But I don't tell him to leave.
"You always follow people when they want to be alone?" I fire back.
"Didn't know you wanted to be."
It doesn't sound like a tease. It sounds like he really didn't know.
We sit in silence. Me on the swing. Him leaning against the old stone wall, head tipped back like he's asking the stars for answers.
Then, still not looking at me, he says, "I used to come out here when I needed to clear my head."
I blink. "Why not at your house?"
He shrugs, soft. "Doesn't feel the same."
Like he didn't mean to say it out loud.
And suddenly, he's not just Leo's shadow anymore — he's something else. Someone I don't fully understand.
I watch him for a moment too long.
"Why did you come out tonight?" I ask.
He doesn't answer at first. Then — "To see you."
He pushes off the wall, straightens. Starts back toward the house. Pauses.
"Happy birthday, Valentina."
He says it like it means something.
Like he means it.
And maybe it's the way he says my name. Or the way he looked at me just a heartbeat longer than he should have.
But something in my chest shifts.
---
The next morning, the house is back to perfect. The glitter's gone, pearls packed away, the guests vanished like ghosts. All that's left is silence.
I tell myself I'm not thinking about Matteo.
But I am.
He didn't stay the night. He never does. Matteo Russo slips in and out of our world like smoke — always near, never here.
Still, I wait too long in the upstairs hallway, pretending I'm looking for something. Hoping, stupidly, I'll hear his voice.
Instead, I find Leo in the study, already half-buried in some call I shouldn't hear. He looks up, just enough.
"Have you seen Matteo?" I ask.
Nothing in his face flickers. "He's gone."
I blink. "Gone where?"
Leo's eyes stay flat. "Left early this morning."
"For how long?"
A pause. Too long.
"He's not coming back, Val."
He says it like it's nothing. Like it doesn't matter.
But it does.
It matters more than I want it to.
And the worst part isn't that he left.
It's that he didn't even say goodbye.