“Mi amore?”
The words hung in the air between Anna and Vincenzo.
She stared at him, her mind going blank for a second.
She didn’t know Italian, but she understood what those words meant, probably from watching too many Italian movies and hearing it spoken in soft, intimate moments meant for lovers.
But why did Vincenzo call her that?
Her pulse quickened, unease crawling up her spine as she searched his face for answers.
Vincenzo stood there as he always did, composed and unruffled, his expression carefully arranged into something almost gentle.
Too gentle.
“Anna?” he called, his voice still wrapped in that fake, warm tone, as if nothing about the moment was strange, as if the word had not slipped out loaded with meaning.
Anna swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, unsure whether to
