Chapter 72

LEVI

I adjusted my frock coat and tugged at my head warmer, making sure they were still in place amidst the tiny, accumulating flakes. The wind howled through the open expanse of the airport, cutting through my clothing like a blade. I shivered. New York’s biting cold was an unwelcome shock—I hadn’t, for the life of me, expected it to be this frigid. The memory of Rome’s gentle winter seemed a dream now, a world away from this brutal northern chill and to think it was only the first day of December.

The sun hung lazily in the sky, brightening the airport but offering no comfort. I exhaled sharply, watching my breath cloud the air.

“Like the English sun in winter,” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the wind. “Shining but giving no warmth.”

I reached for the car door, brushing off the light dusting of snow that had already begun to settle. I had told my dad’s chauffeur, Louis, not to open doors for me when I was perfectly capable of doing it myself—a habit I maintained with diligence anytime I came to New York. It was a small assertion of control, a distinction between the man I had been raised to be and the man I chose to be. Here, in this city, I was a different man altogether.

I had never felt this certain before, and I knew why. It was because of her. Isabella. She was a constant in my mind. Even as I climbed in, my thoughts drifted back to her.

Truthfully, I still felt the urge to turn back—to go to Isabella or summon her here. It would only be a few days apart, but sometimes, the ache of missing her was so overwhelming it stole the breath from my lungs. Like now.

I clenched my jaw, the relentless pang of longing striking deep, reverberating through my soul.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

Louis turned slightly in his seat. “What was that, sir?”

“Just a remark about the weather, Louis. Nothing important.”

He nodded, wisely choosing not to press further, and started the car. The engine purred to life, a welcome distraction from the disquiet in my chest. As we pulled away from the airport, the familiar streets of New York unfolded before me, a city both known and foreign at once. The buildings stood just as tall, the streets just as alive with restless energy, but something felt different. Or maybe it was me who had changed.

I leaned back against the seat, my fingers drumming against my thigh as my mind returned, inevitably, to Isabella. We had chosen to keep our engagement private—at least until I informed my father. It had been an unspoken agreement between us, though we both knew delaying the inevitable wouldn’t change anything. And yet, even in secrecy, I couldn’t keep my hands off her. The week we had spent together had been intoxicating, indulgent. Even now, I could almost feel the ghost of her touch, the lingering scent of her perfume clinging to my skin.

I smiled, though it was tinged with regret. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. Maybe I should have asked her to come with me instead.

The streets blurred past, slick with melted snow, headlights reflecting off the wet pavement like scattered stars. People bustled about, bundled in layers, moving with that signature New York urgency, unaware of the storm inside me. I had left this place years ago, but returning now, I realized I had never truly left it behind.

And then, there was my father. The man who had summoned me back.

Over the years, our meetings had been sporadic at best—fleeting encounters in Italy where pleasantries barely concealed the growing chasm between us. And now, after all this time, he wanted me here. I hated that it was only for his own selfish reasons, another attempt to reclaim control over my life.

I sighed, staring out the window, watching my city pass me by. There was an ache in my chest, one I wasn’t sure if it stemmed from missing Isabella or from the weight of a father’s expectations pressing down on me once again.

Maybe it was both.

I found myself missing my father in a way I hadn't anticipated. He hadn’t always been like this—distant, controlling, distrusting, angry. Once, he had been someone I understood. Or at least, I thought I did.

“New York has changed a great deal, Louis,” I mused, peering out at the city as we drove through its gleaming avenues. “It's been two years since I last set foot here, and I can hardly keep pace with everything that’s different. I can't even find my favorite waffle house or kebab spots.”

“Indeed, sir. Much has changed.” His responded.

Silence settled between us as we approached my childhood home.

The estate stood tall amidst the snowy landscape, showcasing both wealth and refinement which is what the Ferarri’s are known for. It was no longer the house I had grown up in—at least, not entirely. The old-world charm had been stripped away, replaced with a sleek, minimalist elegance that whispered of cutting-edge technology and architectural precision. The facade was a striking interplay of sharp angles and sprawling glass panes, reflecting the winter sun in a dazzling display. It was beautiful, yes, but I wondered if it still felt like home.

One thing that had remained untouched, however, was my father’s love for cars. The garage, now expanded to hold nearly a hundred vehicles, like some sort of shrine. Unlike me—who remained fiercely loyal to Ferrari—my father held no such patriotism. To him, cars were not about brand loyalty; they were masterpieces to be collected, each one a stroke of genius from a different artist.

Well, this had caused some issues with investors for a while—until my father turned it to his advantage. He hired a top-tier PR specialist, whose campaign framed his love for cars as the very reason he had created the best. By experiencing countless models firsthand, he had built something without the flaws of those he had driven. The narrative worked. Our stock prices soared.

My father was a brilliant strategist, and I could only hope to match his mind and foresight. But with Isabella by my side, I could see it unfolding. She possessed one of the brightest PR minds I had ever encountered, and for someone so young and relatively inexperienced, I knew her potential was boundless. I loved watching her gain confidence with every passing day.

As I stepped out of the Rolls-Royce, I took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp winter air. The house, despite its modern facelift, still held a certain familiarity. I ascended the terrace steps, and before I could even reach for the doorbell, it swung open as the butler had anticipated my arrival. Louis followed behind with my bag, his subtle smile lingering, as though he shared in the quiet joy of my return.

I was surprised to find that my father had retained the same domestic staff for years. He was a man who embraced change and followed trends, yet he rarely trusted people—so in hindsight, it made sense that he hadn’t replaced them.

At the gate, I also noticed we now had three extra security men, bringing the total to six instead of the usual three. But given our growing success, I understood his need for extra protection.

Besides, the staff had become part of the home—so deeply integrated that I couldn’t imagine replacing them. From what I could tell, none of them seemed eager to retire either. Seeing Louis at the airport—with his sprinkling of white hair, weathered face, and thinning lips—I suspected my father would never let his staff go. Not when they were considered family.

The cook, Imelda Clinton, greeted me with her usual ebullience. "Welcome home, Mr. Ferrari! It’s been far too long," she exclaimed warmly.

Remarkably, she hadn’t aged a day. Still the same Imelda, still in the same black apron I remembered from childhood. Surely, she must have gotten new ones over the years.

"Imelda, you haven't changed a bit," I chuckled, smiling as I embraced her.

Letting go of her small frame, I took a moment to study her. The years had barely touched her—save for a few silver strands threading through her dark curls. She was still the same plump, petite woman I had grown up loving like a mother, because I had none.

Her warm, knowing eyes crinkled at the edges as she studied me in return. I wondered if she saw the same in me—if she noticed how I had changed, the edges I had sharpened over time.

She crossed her arms and smirked. "Well, neither have you?"

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Oh, come on now. I know I’ve changed."

"So have I."

"You win then. We’ve both changed." I paused before adding with a teasing glint, "But you less."

She gave me a mock glare, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I’ll try not to fight you on that one."

I snickered. "Good."

"Now go to your room and freshen up. I have something nice prepared for you."

My brows lifted. "Is it my favorite?"

She laughed, a rich, familiar sound that instantly wrapped me in comfort. "Better than your favorite."

"Oh, now I’m intrigued. What could possibly be better than creamy shrimp fettuccine pasta with the best steak in New York as a side?" My mouth watered at the mere thought of it. "You have to give me your recipe, or I won’t leave this time."

She chuckled. "We’ll see about that, huh? Now up!"