Chapter Twenty-Four
MARCO
The attorney arrives at ten.
Her name is Evelyn Shaw.
She’s in her early forties, wears a charcoal suit, and looks at me as though she has already found me guilty of several crimes she intends to identify during questioning.
I put her name on the list because she has never represented a Catenzio, Mikhailov, Romanov, or Rossi.
I also included her because she once sued one of my companies and won.
Lucia chose her.
She meets Evelyn in our mother’s study.
I wait in the doorway while Evelyn places a leather case on the desk.
“Mrs. Catenzio?”
Lucia flinches.
Evelyn notices.
“Lucia, then.”
“Yes.”
“My name is Evelyn Shaw. You selected me to review your marriage agreement and represent your interests in matters involving the marriage or the Rossi trust.”
“Your name was on a list Marco gave me.”
“Yes, but you selected me. When he called to arrange the appointment, I made it clear that I would represent you, not him.”
“What did he say?”
“That was the point.”
Lucia glances at me.
“That sounds like him.”
“Before we begin, I need to speak with you alone,” Evelyn says.
“Of course.”
I step back.
Evelyn looks at me.
“I mean somewhere you can’t listen at the door.”
“I don’t listen at doors.”
Lucia raises an eyebrow.
“Frequently,” I amend.
Evelyn closes the study doors in my face.
I return to my office.
Or attempt to.
Gio is waiting in the hallway.
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m walking.”
“You’ve passed your office twice.”
“I forgot something.”
“What?”
I look at him.
He smiles.
“You don’t know.”
“I’m going to work.”
“Try finding your office first.”
I leave him in the hall.
Evelyn and Lucia remain behind the closed doors for almost three hours.
At one point, Angela brings them coffee and sandwiches.
Nothing arrives for me.
Angela hasn’t forgiven me.
She still makes sure I eat, but she accomplishes it through other people. Yesterday, Dario delivered a bowl of soup without explanation. This morning, Armando left coffee on the corner of my desk.
Lunch appears on a tray carried by Bruno.
He sets it down.
“Angela said you should eat.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No.”
He walks out.
The sandwich is turkey on rye.
Lucia’s usual lunch.
I eat half.
At one fifteen, the study doors open.
Evelyn enters my office carrying a stack of documents marked in blue ink.
Lucia follows.
She has changed into dark trousers and a soft gray blouse. The wedding ring remains on her finger.
I try not to look at it.
I fail.
Evelyn takes the chair across from me. Lucia sits beside her.
“I’ve reviewed the marriage agreement,” Evelyn says.
“And?”
“It’s unusually favorable to Lucia.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
She places the agreement on my desk.
“I’ve prepared amendments for a postnuptial agreement.”
I pick up the first page.
Lucia’s handwritten notes appear beside Evelyn’s.
Separate finances.
No marital claim over the Rossi trust.
Independent control of all inherited property.
No shared residence requirement.
No expectation of children.
No physical contact without consent.
The conditions from the church are stated in precise legal language.
A new provision appears near the end.
Either spouse may initiate immediate divorce proceedings. No minimum marriage term shall be enforced if Lucia requests dissolution.
I look at her.
“The agreement was one year.”
“I understand that,” Lucia says.
“This removes it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Evelyn answers.
“Because the original term was negotiated under duress.”
I keep my attention on Lucia.
“Do you want a divorce?”
She twists the wedding ring once.
“I want the option.”
“You have it.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“You’ll sign?”
“Yes.”
“Without arguing?”
I take a pen from my desk.
“Yes.”
Evelyn puts one hand over the signature line.
“We’re not finished.”
I set down the pen.
“Of course not.”
“There will also be a written acknowledgment that Lucia entered the marriage under coercive circumstances.”
“That could invalidate it.”
“It could.”
I look at Lucia.
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer is honest.
“I want a record of what happened. I don’t want anyone claiming later that I happily agreed to Viktor selling me to you.”
“I didn’t buy you.”
Her expression hardens.
I correct myself.
“I understand.”
Evelyn continues.
“Lucia retains the right to live at the Belmont property for as long as she chooses, regardless of marital status.”
“Agreed.”
“If she leaves, you will provide security only at her request.”
I hesitate.
Lucia notices.
“At my request,” she repeats.
“Viktor remains a threat.”
“Then explain the danger and let me decide.”
The old instinct rises.
Calculate the threat.
Choose the safest response.
Arrange the details before anyone else can make a mistake.
It’s the instinct that put her in the SUV.
I force it down.
“Agreed.”
“Any security information relevant to her safety must be shared with her immediately,” Evelyn says.
Lucia’s gaze remains on me.
“No more strategies I don’t know about.”
“No more.”
“Even if you think knowing will put me in danger?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I’ll make the wrong decision?”
“Yes.”
She studies me.
“You said that before.”
The reminder lands quietly.
“I know.”
Her expression changes.
“Stop saying that.”
“Sorry.”
Evelyn looks between us.
“Should I come back?”
“No,” Lucia and I answer together.
Her lips press into a thin line.
“Then one final matter. The marriage does not give Marco authority over your medical care, finances, travel, or legal representation. I recommend preparing separate directives so that remains clear.”
“I want Angela to make medical decisions if I can’t,” Lucia says.
The choice shouldn’t hurt.
It does.
Evelyn writes it down.
“And if Angela is unavailable?”
Lucia looks at Gio, who has appeared in the doorway.
Him.
Of course.
“Gio.”
He becomes very still.
Evelyn adds his name.
She doesn’t look at me.
Neither does Lucia.
My wife spent our wedding night holding my brother’s hand.
Now she has chosen him to speak for her when she cannot speak for herself.
She chose correctly.
That’s what makes it difficult.
I sign every amendment.
Evelyn gathers the documents.
“I’ll have finalized copies delivered tomorrow.”
She turns to Lucia.
“Call me directly if anything concerns you. You don’t need to discuss it with anyone in this house first.”
“Thank you.”
Evelyn indicates the banking documents I left in the study.
“We’ll review those separately. Nothing will be opened or transferred unless you decide to sign them.”
Lucia nods.
Evelyn leaves.
Gio moves aside to let her pass.
Lucia remains seated.
“You didn’t have to sign that quickly,” she says.
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because hesitation would suggest I believed I had a right to refuse.”
She looks down at her ring.
“What happens now?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“You don’t have to know today.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“That’s what Gio said.”
“He stole it from me.”
Gio leans against the frame.
“I improved the delivery.”
Lucia smiles at him.
It’s small.
Still more than she has given me.
It hurts.
Not because I resent what they share.
Because I want her to trust me too.
Lucia rises.
“I’m going to the library.”
“I found something you should see.”
She stops.
“About my father?”
“Possibly.”
Gio straightens.
Lucia looks toward our mother’s study.
“I’ll get the files.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
She hesitates.
Then nods.
Gio follows her into the hallway.
Their shoulders brush.
Lucia says something too quietly for me to hear.
Gio laughs.
The sound fades toward the study.
I remain behind my desk for ten seconds.
Then I collect the Moretti file and join them.
The photograph lies beneath a magnifying lamp.
Maria stands outside the harbor restaurant, laughing at the man beside her. His face remains beyond the frame, but the signet ring on his left hand is visible.
Two keys cross beneath a crown.
One key bears a long scratch through its center.
Lucia sits behind the desk. Gio occupies the chair beside her.
I take the chair across from them.
“What did you find?” she asks.
I place three photographs on the desk.
The first shows a line of men outside a church in Providence. The image is more than twenty years old.
The second was taken at a funeral.
The third comes from a newspaper archive.
I slide the last one toward her.
A younger Matteo Moretti stands beside his father at the opening of a shipping terminal. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Broad shoulders beneath an expensive suit.
His left hand rests on a ceremonial pair of scissors.
The ring is clearly visible.
Lucia leans closer.
“The crest matches.”
“Yes.”
“What about the scratch?”
I hand her the magnifying glass.
She studies the ring.
A pale line crosses the left key.
Her breath catches.
“It’s the same.”
“We believe so.”
Gio examines the other photographs.
“Other Morettis wore similar rings.”
“They did,” I say. “The family gave them to made men above a certain rank.”
“Then it could belong to anyone.”
“Except the scratch appears in photographs of Matteo’s ring over a period of twelve years.”
Lucia looks at the photograph of her mother.
“Maybe he loaned it to someone.”
“Possible.”
“But unlikely.”
“Yes.”
She studies the newspaper photograph again.
“He was thirty-one when I was born?”
“Yes. Unmarried and already acting as his father’s underboss.”
“What happened to him?”
“He took control of the family after his father died.”
“And now?”
“He controls Providence, several operations in New York, and significant interests along the eastern ports.”
Her gaze remains on Moretti’s face.
“Does he have children?”
“None that are acknowledged.”
“A wife?”
“He married twelve years ago. She died five years later.”
“No children?”
“No.”
Lucia sits back.
The resemblance isn’t overwhelming.
Dark hair. Similar eyes.
Features common enough to prove nothing.
But once the possibility exists, it becomes difficult not to see.
“What else?” she asks.
“A letter from my father.”
I take it from the file.
The paper has yellowed, and the fold lines have begun to split. My father’s handwriting covers one side.
“It was never sent,” I explain. “There’s no name, only an address associated with one of Moretti’s companies.”
Lucia reads aloud.
Maria has made her decision. I won’t violate her confidence, regardless of whether I agree with it. If circumstances change, I will contact you. Until then, you must let her go.
Her finger stops beneath the final line.
“What confidence?”
“I believe Maria told my father about the pregnancy.”
“And he helped her hide it.”
“Yes.”
“From Matteo.”
“Probably.”
She puts down the letter.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“She said knowing about me would destroy everything he built.”
“Moretti was negotiating an alliance at the time. His father intended him to marry the daughter of another family.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. The arrangement collapsed shortly after Maria married Alexei.”
“Because of her?”
“Possibly.”
“Did he know she married?”
“The marriage was public. He would have known.”
“Did he ever see her again?”
“I haven’t found any evidence that he did.”
Lucia looks at the letter again.
“You must let her go,” she reads softly.
Her fingers tighten around the paper.
“He tried to find her.”
“It appears so.”
“He loved her.”
It isn’t a question.
“I think so.”
“And she disappeared without telling him about me.”
“She may have believed she was protecting you.”
She’s silent for a moment.
“Everyone keeps doing terrible things to protect me.”
No one answers.
There is nothing to say.
Gio reaches for her.
Then stops before touching her.
She notices and takes his hand herself.
I look away.
After a moment, she releases him and rises.
“I need a minute.”
“Of course.”
She leaves the study.
Gio watches her go.
“You should follow her.”
“So should you.”
“She’ll let you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
I close the file.
“She chose you as her medical proxy.”
“That isn’t about love.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“It’s about trust.”
“Yes.”
He waits.
I understand his point.
Trust is what she needs.
Not another man deciding who should comfort her.
“I’ll give her space.”
Gio studies me.
Then he leaves after her.
I remain in the study surrounded by evidence of another man who lost the woman he loved because choices were made in the name of protection.
The comparison is unwelcome.
And alarmingly accurate.
Twenty minutes later, Lucia returns alone.
Her eyes are red, but her voice is steady.
“Is Matteo alive?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about me?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Would he want to?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Would contacting him put me in danger?”
“Possibly.”
She waits for more.
I force myself not to give her a decision disguised as information.
“He’s powerful,” I continue. “His organization is larger than ours or Viktor’s. If he believes you’re his daughter, that connection will have consequences. Some may be dangerous.”
“But it’s my decision.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me for a long moment.
The word carries history between us.
Finally, she nods.
“Good.”
She reaches for the photograph of Moretti.
“I want copies of everything.”
“I’ll have them made.”
“And I want to choose how we contact him.”
“We won’t do anything until you decide.”
Her fingers trace the image of the damaged ring.
“What if he’s my father?”
“Then you decide whether he gets to know you.”
Her gaze lifts to mine.
Something shifts in her expression.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But perhaps the first recognition that I am trying to become a man she might trust again.
Lucia gathers the photographs and carries them toward the door.
“Marco?”
“Yes?”
“Come to dinner tonight.”
The request surprises me.
“Are you sure?”
“Angela keeps setting a place for you.”
I look at her.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
She hesitates.
Then—
“I don’t want you hiding in your office because you think it makes things easier for me.”
“It does.”
“No. It makes everyone watch the doorway.”
I say nothing.
“Eight o’clock,” she tells me. “Don’t be late.”
“That sounded like an order.”
The faintest smile touches her mouth.
“You need practice recognizing them.”
She leaves.
At eight, I take my place at the table.
Lucia sits across from me.
Gio sits beside her.
The arrangement hurts.
I remain anyway.