Thirty-one
Chiara
My phone buzzes against the desk, sharp against the quiet hum of keyboards.
“Marci.” I keep my eyes on the spreadsheet. “Any news?”
It’s been nearly a month since we returned from Chicago, and it’s been quiet.
“Can you come into my San Francisco office?” she asks.
“What time were you thinking?” I ask, trying to sound professional to all the ears in the bullpen.
“As soon as you can get here,” she says, a door clicking shut on her end.
I sit back a fraction, tapping my pen once against the desk. “Is this about the prenup,” I say, lowering my voice as George passes behind me.
“Come in,” she says, not answering.
I glance at the screen and then at the clock in the corner. “I was just packing up.”
“Chiara,” she says. “Get here as soon as you can.”
I press my lips together and pull the phone closer. “You’re not giving me anything,” I say, turning slightly in my chair so my back faces the aisle. “If I walk out, it’s noticed.”
“Then be noticed,” she says, her breath audible now. “Just don’t be late.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, set it beside my keyboard, and then look up.
Bethany leans over her screen two desks down, fingers flying, earbuds in. Janet’s chair is turned toward George, both of them hunched over a printout, arguing in low voices that don’t carry. No one looks up.
I swivel back to my monitor and pull the group calendar onto the second screen, scrolling with my index finger along the trackpad. Heather is in a meeting all afternoon. I can work late tonight.
I reach under the desk and pull my bag up, sliding my laptop inside and zipping it halfway.
“Where are you disappearing to?” Bethany asks, not looking at me as she taps the paper with her pen.
“I have a gap,” I say, pointing at the screen like she can see it. “I need to run an errand. If I take an early lunch, I can get it done quicker.”
She watches me a second longer and then shrugs and pops the earbud back in. “Bring snacks,” she says, already turning back to her screen.
I push my chair in with my knee and step into the aisle, adjusting the strap on my shoulder so it sits higher.
The elevator bank hums at the end of the hall, doors opening and closing in steady rhythm. I hit the call button with my knuckle and glance at the reflection in the metal doors.
“Where are you going?” Heather says behind me, her heels cutting the space clean.
I turn, shifting my weight so I block the direct line back to my desk. “I’ll be back,” I say, lifting my bag slightly like it explains everything. “Beating the lunch rush.”
Her eyes drop to the bag and then lift back to my face. “You didn’t put it on the calendar,” she says, folding her arms.
“I saw an opening.” I press the elevator button again, though it’s already lit. “I’m taking it.”
She steps closer, close enough that I catch the edge of her perfume. “We’re in the middle of an audit. You don’t just step out.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I say, keeping my hand on the strap so it doesn’t slip. “Nothing’s due before then.”
“That’s not the point,” she says, angling her body so she’s between me and the doors. “I need to know where my team is.”
“You do,” I say, nodding once. “Bank. One hour.”
Her gaze holds mine a beat too long. “Don’t make me chase you for updates.”
“I won’t.” I turn toward the doors as they slide open.
I step inside and pivot, my hand hitting the close button before she can add anything else and the doors close between us.
I exhale through my nose and hit the lobby, the number lighting up as the elevator drops.
The elevator doors part and I step into the lobby, adjusting the strap on my shoulder as I angle toward the exit.
“Car’s outside,” Victor says from the pillar, pushing off it and falling into step beside me. His hand hovers near my elbow without touching. “We should move.”
I push through the glass doors with Victor on my heels.
A black sedan idles at the curb. The driver straightens as he sees us, hand already on the rear door.
“Head down,” Victor says, shifting slightly in front of me as we step onto the sidewalk. “No reason to linger.”
“I’m not lingering,” I say, lifting my hand to my sunglasses and sliding them into place.
“Then don’t stop,” he says, his voice low as he angles his body to block the street side.
I don’t answer. I take two more steps—and then I see him.
Palo stands near a bus enclosure with one hand in his coat pocket, the other lifting as he checks his watch. His attention tracks the doors, not the sidewalk, not the street.
Waiting.
My pace doesn’t break. I shift the strap on my shoulder higher and keep my chin level.
I pause just long enough for the driver to open the door, and Victor gets into the car beside me.
“Palo is right there,” I say, as I point to him standing and watching the front door.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Victor pulls out his phone, and he quickly taps out a message.
Palo turns slightly as someone exits the building. His gaze moves past them, scanning, slow and deliberate.
Not random.
The car pulls into traffic.
I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, unlocking it with my thumb.
“Who are you calling?” he asks, his hand on my arm.
“No one. I’m just looking at what’s going on at home so I’m ready for this meeting.” I scroll through headlines until I find what I’m looking for—the first article loads. I skim the opening lines, and then slow, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Victor shifts beside me.
I tap the headline. The O’Malley Clan is escalating. I shut my eyes. Whatever Marci has for me, I know what’s driving it. Disputed shipments and contracts being challenged. Public statements about “breach of trust.”
This will put pressure on my dad and Massimo, but they won’t join the fray without something for them, and that will be me.
When we get to Marci’s building, I’m off like a shot and head right to the elevators that open right into her reception.
“Ms. Bullucci,” she says as she stands and leads me to a conference room. “I’ll let Marci know you’ve arrived.”
“Thank you.”
Marci pushes the glass door open, hits the remote to fog the walls, and drops a slim folder and her phone on the table with a sharp tap.
“I almost didn’t recognize you with the dark hair and dark eyes,” she says, pulling out a chair.
I slide into the seat across from her and set my bag down. “That’s the point.”
She sits and taps the top page once, sharp. “They filed.”
“Filed what,” I say, reaching for the papers, flipping past the cover sheet too fast.
“Emergency petition,” she says, sliding her phone toward me. “Cook County. They’re moving to have you declared incompetent.”
I stop on the second page. “They’re pushing this fast.” I drag my thumb down the margin, scanning the language. “There’s no basis.”
“They don’t need to win,” Marci says, pulling the chair closer and leaning in, palms flat on the table. “They need enough to trigger temporary authority.”
I look up at her. “Authority over what?”
“Over you,” she says, meeting my eyes. “Medical, financial, legal. Your father signs on your behalf while it’s pending.”
“He signs something that hands him control,” I say, dragging my finger down the clause. “How does that hold up? I haven’t been evaluated. There’s no report.”
“They attached one,” she says, tapping the phone screen again. “Remote consult. Handpicked physician. It’s garbage, but it exists.”
I let out a breath through my nose and flip to the attachment. “He’s in Chicago,” I say, jabbing the name with my finger. “I’ve never met him.”
“They’re not trying to convince you,” Marci says, pushing her chair closer, the legs scraping. “They’re trying to move faster than we can respond.”
I turn another page. The prenup header sits in heavy type across the top.
“They filed this too,” she says, nodding at the document. “Concurrent with the petition.”
“They can’t execute a prenup without me,” I say, dragging the paper toward me, scanning the clauses. “It requires my signature.”
“They’re arguing they don’t need it,” she says, folding her hands together, tight. “If your father is granted temporary authority, he signs.”
I look up. “For me.”
“For you,” she says, holding my gaze.
“They can’t enforce anything.”
Marci exhales once and flips the top page toward herself. “Control of assets,” she says, sliding her finger down the first section.
“I don’t have any assets,” I say, flipping a page with my thumb.
I lean in, bracing my forearms on the table. “Palo doesn’t expect me to work.”
Marci doesn’t turn the page. She presses her palm flat over the document, holding it in place.
“Stop reading that,” she says, sliding the folder an inch away from me. “It’s not the problem.”
I keep my fingers on the edge of the paper. “It tells me exactly what they’re doing,” I say, pulling it back.
“It tells you what they want after they win,” she says, tapping the cover twice. “They haven’t won yet.”
I glance up. “They’re close enough to act like it.”
“They’re close enough to rush,” she says, dragging her chair closer, the legs scraping. “That’s different.”
I flatten the page again, my nail catching the margin. “If they get authority, he signs this,” I say, tapping the signature line. “That’s the move.”
“If they get authority,” she repeats, leaning in, her pen hovering over the petition instead of the prenup. “That’s the only line that matters.”
I shift my focus, sliding the petition out from under the folder. “Walk me through it,” I say, bracing my forearms on the table.
“Emergency filing,” she says, tracing the header with her pen. “They’re asking for temporary incompetency. Fast track.”
“Based on what?” I ask, flipping to the attachment, the paper snapping under my hand.
“A physician you’ve never met,” she says, tapping the name. “Remote consult. No exam.”
I look up. “That holds?”
“It holds long enough to get in front of a judge,” she says, tapping the page again. “And that’s all they need.”
I push the prenup aside with the back of my hand. “So we stop that.”
Marci doesn’t nod. She taps the petition once, harder.
“We try,” she says, dragging her pen down the margin. “You step into this, you’re not invisible anymore.”
I keep my hand on the page. “I’m already not.”
“Not like this,” she says, looking up, holding my eyes. “On record, in court, under oath. They get access to you.”
I shift in the chair, pulling it in tighter. “They already filed.”
“And you’ve been out of reach,” she says, circling a line on the petition. “That becomes part of their argument the second you show up wrong.”
I tap the paper once, and then again. “Then I don’t show up wrong.”
“That’s not a switch you flip,” she says, leaning forward, her pen braced against the table. “You misstep or hesitate they use it. You say the wrong thing, they build on it.”
I hold her gaze. “So I don’t hesitate.”
Marci studies me for a beat, and then exhales. “This pulls everything into the open,” she says, straightening. “No more space to control it quietly.”
“They already took that,” I say, sliding the prenup aside. “I’m just taking it back.”
I sit back, the chair shifting under me. “Timeline.”
“Forty-eight to seventy-two hours,” she says, checking her phone, and then setting it down harder than necessary. “Maybe less if they push.”
I drag the petition closer, scanning faster. “They’re alleging impaired judgment,” I say, tapping the paragraph. “Instability. External influence.”
“They’re building a story,” she says, folding her arms. “You’re absent. That helps them.”
I look up. “So I don’t stay absent.”
“You don’t,” she says, uncrossing her arms and leaning forward again. “I have a doctor you can meet with. And we’re not going to play in their playground. We bring them here. We get you evaluated in person and file for a change of venue because you live here.”
I tap the page once and then again harder. “Independent physician.”
“Immediately,” she says, nodding, her pen already moving. “Not someone they control. Someone local. San Francisco.”
“And we file before their hearing,” I say, sliding the petition back to center. “Counter it.”
“We don’t chase them to Chicago,” she says, lifting a finger and tapping the table once. “We pull this here.”
I angle the page toward her. “You can do that?”
“I can make them answer here,” she says, circling a line on the petition. “You’re here. The facts are here. We anchor it.”
I push my chair back an inch and then pull it in again. “If I walk in, I’m visible.”
“If you don’t, you’re incompetent on paper in a court you can’t reach,” she says, holding my gaze. “Pick which one you want.”
I exhale through my nose and tap the edge of the table. “They’re counting on me staying out of it.”
“They’re counting on you being hard to find,” she says, dragging her pen under a heading. “And stuck reacting on their turf.”
I slide the prenup fully aside, clearing the space between us. “Then we move it.”
“We take it.” She presses her palm flat on the petition. “We file here, we get a local evaluation, and we force a hearing they can’t control.”
I watch her for a beat. “This isn’t a soft response.”
“It’s not,” she says, her voice lowering as she writes faster. “Once we file here, they have to deal with us on the record.”
“There isn’t a quiet version of this.” I tap the petition again. “They burned that.”
She nods once and flips to a clean page. “I’ll line up the evaluation for today.” She looks through her phone contacts. “We file in San Francisco. Emergency response, jurisdiction challenge, immediate hearing.”
“And I show up.” I push to my feet, the chair legs scraping behind me.
“You show up here,” she says, looking up, pen still moving. “In front of a judge who can see you.”
I reach for the folder and close it, pressing my palm over the cover. “He doesn’t get to sign for me.”
“Not if we keep it out of his court,” she says, underlining the last line hard enough to dent the page.
I meet her eyes. “Then we keep it here.”