PART 6 – The Letter from Milan
The envelope lay on the wooden kitchen table as if it were a poisonous snake. Vittoria was playing on the rug with her blocks, fortunately unaware of the tension taking hold of me. With trembling fingers, I tore open the thick envelope. Inside were legal documents that made my head spin. Stefano's lawyer was not only demanding a revision of alimony, but also claiming that I was unfit as a mother due to alleged 'psychological instability' after the divorce. Worse still: there was an attachment with photos.
Photos of me and Luca Ferri on the plane.
The images were taken from a strange angle—probably not by Moretti from row fourteen, but by someone else who had been sitting closer. The photos clearly showed me resting my head on Luca's shoulder, and later holding his hand during turbulence. The text underneath lied plainly: Stefano's lawyer was using this 'evidence' to show that I was already keeping a secret relationship while the divorce was still fresh, and that I should therefore lose my right to custody of Vittoria.
Anger, so fierce and blinding that it made me nauseous, surged through my entire body.
It was a trap. Stefano knew about the publicity surrounding Luca Ferri or had contacted that same gossip press through intermediaries to gather evidence he could use in the custody lawsuit over Vittoria. He wanted to destroy me. Not because he cared about our daughter, but because he wanted to whitewash his own reputation and avoid paying me any financial compensation.
"Look at that," muttered Chiara, who had just walked into the kitchen with a cup of coffee. She looked over my shoulder at the photos and put her hand over her mouth. "No... are you kidding? How on earth did they get these?"
"Stefano," I said in a hoarse, trembling voice. "He's using this to break me down. He wants to take Vittoria away from me, Chiara."
"He can't do that! That's illegal!" Chiara cried out indignantly. "We need a lawyer. Immediately!"
But I knew a regular lawyer wouldn't be enough. Stefano had money, power, and connections in Milan's real estate world. He would exploit every legal loophole to crush me.
Then my eye caught the nightstand in my bedroom. There lay Luca Ferri's business card.
Could he help me? Or would he refuse to get involved in a mudslinging match that could completely destroy his already shaky career with the airline? I stood up, walked with leaden steps to my bedroom, and picked up the card. Without thinking, I dialed the number on my phone. The heartbeat in my throat pounded as if I were back in that turbulent airplane.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
Just when I was about to hang up, a deep, familiar voice sounded on the other end.
"Ferri speaking."
