Eleven forty-seven at night. Agenore is in his office, standing next to the dark wooden desk, with a lit cigar between his fingers. Beyond the glass the city shines, and three of his men stand waiting on an order about a dispute that could cost him two ports. His phone vibrates. A message from a number he does not have. No name. No explanation. One line:
"I hope you've learned to live without me."
Agenore goes still. He reads the message once. Then again. He would recognize those words even after a hundred years. For the first time all night, the man who never loses control feels the ground disappear beneath his feet.
"Get out,"
he orders his men.
"Boss?"
Agenore slowly raises his gaze.
"I said get out."
The door closes. He is alone. His fingers close around the phone as he types a reply, deletes it, and types it again. He could order the number traced. He could demand answers. He could try to regain control of the situation the way he always does. But, for once, he is afraid that a single wrong word will make her disappear again. Finally, he sends:
"Three years without hearing your voice, and the first thing you do is remind me that I must live without you."
The typing indicator appears. Agenore stops breathing for an instant. And then the reply arrives.
"Haven't you learned yet, Agenore?"
He stares at the screen. His eyes darken, and a slow, almost painful smile appears on his lips.
"No, amore,"
he whispers.
"From you, never."
And for the first time in three years, the king of the Vintottis has something to lose again. Because this time he doesn't know who wrote that message, why she has returned, or whether she wants to say goodbye for good… or if she is about to open a door they both swore to keep closed.