Chapter Twenty-Five #3
“I’ll have Grace make a list.”
“No, I’ll have Evelyn make one.”
His smile deepens.
“Even better.”
#
We return to Belmont shortly before dinner.
Marco is in his office.
I knock.
His head lifts.
The surprise in his expression tells me people rarely bother.
“Come in.”
I close the door behind me.
His office faces the kitchen terrace. The late-afternoon light has turned the windows amber, but Marco’s desk lamp is already on. Financial reports cover one side of the desk. The other remains almost aggressively neat.
When I sit, the report in front of him disappears beneath another file.
“I went to Prince Street.”
“I was told.”
“Of course you were.”
“Armando reports when you return safely. Nothing more.”
I choose to believe him.
For now.
He closes the file.
“What did you find?”
“My mother’s office. A man who knew her. Records connecting her to Matteo Moretti.”
His attention sharpens.
“Where are they?”
“Armando has them.”
“I’ll review—“
“I’ll review them first.”
Marco stops.
Then he nods.
“Of course.”
I take the chair across from him and set the wrapped glass horse in my lap.
“You paid the taxes on the Rossi properties.”
“Yes.”
“You also paid Viktor six million dollars and spent another four-point-six buying his debts.”
His expression stills.
“Armando told you.”
“I made him.”
“I see.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t relevant.”
“Eleven million dollars feels pretty relevant.”
“The amount wasn’t relevant.”
“You spent it because of me.”
“I spent it because Viktor believed money gave him a claim over you.”
“So you gave him more.”
“I gave him a way to release you without admitting defeat.”
I twist the wedding ring.
“Do you expect me to repay you?”
“No.”
“Do you expect the trust to?”
“No.”
“Do you expect anything?”
His eyes meet mine.
“No.”
“No one expects nothing.”
The words echo from my conversation with Gio.
Marco leans back.
“What answer would make you more comfortable?”
“The truth.”
“The truth is that I returned you to Mikhailov’s house.”
His voice remains controlled.
“The money doesn’t change that. It doesn’t purchase forgiveness, and I won’t use it to suggest you owe me anything.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because you were behind a locked door,” he says. “And indirectly or not, I put you there.”
The answer leaves no room for calculation.
For several seconds, neither of us speaks.
The glass horse presses through its wrapping and into my palm.
“I want to restore the Rossi building.”
He nods.
“Then restore it.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You’ll learn.”
“You make everything sound simple.”
“It isn’t simple.”
“What if I make mistakes?”
“You will.”
I glare at him.
The corner of his mouth moves.
“Everyone does.”
“Even you?”
“Frequently, it seems.”
The reference sits between us.
I look down at my hands.
“Armando said your people manage the trust.”
“They protected it while you were unavailable.”
“I’m available now.”
“Yes.”
“I want them removed.”
“I’ll arrange the transfer tomorrow.”
No argument.
No warning that I’m inexperienced.
“What if I run it into the ground?”
“It’s yours to run into the ground.”
A laugh catches in my throat.
I suppress it.
Mostly.
Marco notices.
“Was that amusing?”
“No.”
“You smiled.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
The exchange is familiar.
Too familiar.
My smile disappears.
Marco looks away first.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
The honesty surprises me.
I rise.
At the door, I stop.
“Enzo Bellini says Matteo Moretti visited my mother’s office regularly.”
Marco’s attention returns to me.
“He came the night before her wedding.”
“Did Enzo hear what they discussed?”
“No. He heard them arguing and saw my mother afterward.”
“Did Maria tell him anything about Matteo?”
“No.”
“Then we know they met,” Marco says. “Not why.”
The distinction matters.
“I found receipts from Crown Fish. One signed by my mother and one charged to Matteo.”
“From the same period?”
“Yes.”
“That establishes contact.”
“Not a relationship.”
“No.”
I think of everything I wanted Enzo to tell me.
That Matteo loved her.
That she loved him.
That he would have chosen us if he had known.
None of those answers can be found in an old office or on the bottom of a restaurant receipt.
There is only one person left who might know them.
“I want to contact Matteo.”
The decision formed somewhere between Maria’s desk and the drive home.
Saying it aloud makes it real.
Marco’s expression reveals nothing.
“You’re certain?”
“No.”
I think of the glass horse wrapped inside my bag.
“But I want to decide whether he gets to know me.”
Marco nods.
“How?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“When you do, tell me what you need.”
Not what he will arrange.
What I need.
“Thank you.”
I open the door.
“Lucia.”
I look back.
“Dinner is in ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Will you be there?”
“This is my house too.”
The words leave me before I can reconsider them.
Marco goes very still.
“Good,” he says.
I walk toward the kitchen with the keys in my pocket and my mother’s glass horse in my hand.
For the first time, the Rossi name doesn’t feel like something Viktor can sell.
It feels like something I might build.