I remember taking an art history class back in college and studying the Sistine Chapel for weeks on end, until I became tired of Michelangelo and his endless work of religious figures and naked muscled men in loincloths.

I got a C and I blamed it on that segment. But staring up at the familiar panels, my neck already cramping from the position, I experienced a shudder of recognition that tingled through my nerve endings and settled into my bones. The feeling of seeing greatness up close.

The soaring, colorful images squeezed together created an unending row of visual treats—a feast for the senses. Angels were not only people with wings but held fierce expressions that reflected basic human struggles, from envy to pride, and agony to joy. Cloaks rippled and flowed with delicate wrinkles. Fingers stretched out to grasp at God, and God judged and found man lacking. No inch of the ceiling remained untouched, and I felt locked into a small space of artistic vastness.

Cell phones vibrated. Occasional coughs, exhalations, and quiet murmurs and shuffled steps were the only sounds in the chamber. I soaked it all in, letting the experience overtake the nonstop chattering in my head, and in that brief moment of time, I touched a tiny piece of nothingness.

It was beautiful.

The reprieve lasted fifteen minutes. Soon after, we were ushered back outside, stripped of our earbuds and mini speaker attachments. We boarded the bus to get back to our hotel and spend the afternoon on our own. I took a seat in the front, but Allegra stuck with Mom and sat behind me. I glanced at my watch to calculate the time difference back in New York and estimated I’d need at least a few hours to work. Kate and Layla had been holding back on sending emails, but I knew they were trying to respect my vacation time. They’d agreed to keep me informed of every move on the Lexi’s Lemonade account, even though they were both technically the leads.

The idea of all I was missing back at the office, especially after the panic attack, bothered me. I needed to be available to weigh in on decisions so I was still involved. I’d still have plenty of time for the tour and family time. A few hours per day was practically nothing.

Enzo stood in the front of the bus and raised his hands. Today he was dressed in a smart cream-colored suit in a light cotton material, with a bright blue T-shirt underneath. His shoes were a supple leather and his socks matched his shirt. A pair of dark sunglasses perched on top of his head amid thick brown curls. Italian men certainly knew how to dress.

“I hope everyone enjoyed the Vatican and Sistine chapel. Beautiful, sì?”

Everyone shouted in agreement.