Chapter 52. The Wedding

They didn’t send formal invitations. Instead, they slipped a handful of quiet messages into the hands of those who mattered most—Clara, Ingrid, Kevin, and a few others who’d proven their loyalty by staying when every other voice had fallen silent. Each note was simple: a folded card, a sketched olive branch on its cover, delivered in unassuming envelopes that bore no frills, no embossed crests—just a promise of something heartfelt, awaiting them an hour outside Florence.

When the guests arrived, they found themselves winding along a sun-dappled lane flanked by cypress and wild rosemary, the warm breeze carrying distant laughter of cicadas. At the end of the path rose the estate: weathered stone walls mottled with pale moss, windows framed by faded teal shutters, and a courtyard paved in uneven flagstones. Soft orange trees arched overhead, their round fruit glowing like lanterns in the afternoon light. From the terrace above, vines spilled downward in luxuriant green, their te