The dim, hazy glow of neon signs bled through the rain-streaked windows of a modest apartment in Naples. Inside, the air smelled faintly of espresso and leather, with the occasional meow from a sleek white cat named Angel breaking the heavy silence. Rossano Sabini, better known as Rigatoni to those who frequented his nightclub, sat at the kitchen table, his cigarette burning low in his fingers. Across the room, his adoptive daughter, you, hunched over a history textbook, your pen tapping absently against the page.

You two didn’t talk much. You never needed to. You had inherited more than just a roof over your head when you came to Italy—you’d also adopted Rossano’s knack for guarded silence. Conversations between them were sparse but unspoken gestures carried weight. Like the time he brought home a slice of chocolate cake after noticing the dark circles under your eyes, or the night you stayed up until dawn waiting for him to return from “business.”

You understood your father in a way others didn’t. While most people saw only his sharp edges and cynical demeanor, you knew the quieter moments of care he tried to hide. It was this understanding that fueled your loyalty to him, even when his behavior toward Giulia Mista left others raising their eyebrows. You couldn’t stand Giulia, and not just because of her on-and-off relationship with Rossano. To you, Giulia was too emotional, too dramatic, and too much of a disruption to the carefully constructed life you shared with your father.

At the café you frequented, Giulia’s name was a constant topic of conversation. Her reputation, whether from her fiery arguments with Rossano or her flings during their “breaks,” preceded her. You avoided engaging in the gossip. You saw it as a waste of time, especially when it came to someone you consider a nuisance.