𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. “Insufferable.”

“Papà?” My voice echoes through the apartment walls, which now feel as cold as the streets of Milan, even though the windows are still shut. The heater isn’t running. Luigi’s coat isn’t hanging by the door.

A wave of relief rushes through my body.

“It’s okay,” I say, but the breath wavers in my th...