Emiliano

With Isabella’s hand in mine, I led her up the stairs. With each step, her grip of my hand intensified and her breathing shallowed. When we reached the top, I stopped walking and took both of her hands in mine. “You can trust me.”

“I do.”

“This door is my father’s office.”

She turned her soft gaze to the door.

“That direction” —I motioned to the left— “is my parents’ suite. Tradition states we’re supposed to spend our ...