Dante took a deep breath. Looked at his son. Fifteen years old. Asking about the mother he'd never known.

"Your mother was beautiful. Not just physically. Though she was that too. Dark hair. Warm eyes. Smile that could light up a room. But beautiful in her soul. Her spirit. The way she saw good in everyone."

Leo listened. Hungry for details. For pieces of a woman who was only a name to him.

"She was kind. Patient. Could speak five languages fluently. Loved to read. To learn. To experience everything." Dante's voice grew softer. "We met at a charity event. She was there with her mother. Marta. I was there...