Chapter 12 Livia
It's been a little over a week since I've set up and claimed this library.
Part of me cannot believe it's been that long.
I think the only reason it's hitting me now is because I'm stuck on a specific part of my dissertation, unsure which way to go.
Normally, when things are going well, time flies as I tend to dive into my work, escaping everything around me.
However, when I'm stuck, I'm thrust back into reality.
Four days ago, I came in to find an envelope from Marcella on my computer. It contained my library cards. I finally left the house and went to the University of Chicago's library to check it out. Alessandro—who prefers to go by Alex—drove me. I was annoyed at first, but he's alright.
The only thing I don't like about it is that he has to walk behind me—everywhere.
Down the library stacks, he follows me. Have to use the bathroom?
He's outside the door. Ordering a coffee?
He's off in the corner, positioned like a military man at attention, scanning the room and staring at me.
It's a bit uncomfortable. But he doesn't really talk much, so I try to pretend he's not there. At least he’s a gentleman and always makes sure I’m doing well so theres that.
My nightly dinners with Enzo have almost—just almost—become something I look forward to. The food is always really good, and his company is, well, not as bad as I thought it would be.
Yet, while he’s learning a lot about me, I'm left in the darkness. When I ask him questions about himself, his family, or even his work, he doesn't give me a whole lot. He seems nice and very caring but I want to know more about him if I'm going to be married to the damn guy.
Maybe there's something in that writing desk that will tell me more about what he does, where he came from, and who his family really is?
That's probably why i’ve been unable to get out of my mind.
That and a splash of 'you want what you can't have' kind of thing since I brought it up again, and he's completely shot me down and dismissed it.
Hell, I don’t even really want to use it anymore, but the idea that there could be something hidden within it to could help me learn the real Enzo - ugh, it's like a damn Siren from mythology, luring me in with her song.
Anyhow, Enzo missed dinner tonight. Away on business, I’m told. So guess what I’m doing tonight?
I took a picture of the desk and uploaded it to a forum for antique collectors.
One person, Bobbles334, told me a few locations where hidden compartments may be located and how to open them.
Apparently, it’s a spring mechanism that’s activated by bobby pins, which I have, so I’m going to MacGyver this damn thing.
I’ve drawn a red circle around the three possible locations on my phone, so let’s see what I find.
My heart races as I crouch before the antique writing desk, my hands trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear. The library is silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Enzo's looming figure, but I’m alone. For now.
I fumble with the bobby pin, squinting in the dim light as I search for the pinhole Bobbles334 described. The wood grain feels smooth beneath my fingertips as I trace the edge of the desk, seeking the elusive opening.
"Come on," I say as frustration builds. "Where are you?"
My heart jumps as I feel a slight indentation in the wood. Is this it? I lean in closer, my nose nearly touching the desk's surface. There, almost invisible to the naked eye, is a tiny hole.
With an unsteady hand, I insert the bobby pin. It slides in easily, and I hold my breath, listening for any sign that I’ve triggered the mechanism. Nothing happens.
"Shit," I say, jiggling the pin. Still nothing.
I pull it out and try again, angling it differently this time. My heart pounds so loudly I feel like I can hear my blood moving through my body. What if someone hears? What if Enzo comes back early?
Suddenly, I feel a slight give. The pin sinks in further, and there’s a faint click.
I freeze, my body tense, waiting. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a soft whirr, a small compartment slides open.
"Yes!" I whisper in excitement. My eyes widen as I peer inside, but any sense of triumph is quickly replaced by disappointment. The compartment is empty. No hidden message, no secret compartment—just a void.
"Damn it," I whisper.
Just to be sure, I run my fingers along the inside of the compartment, feeling for any hidden latches or false bottoms. Nothing. It’s just smooth, polished wood.
That’s okay, there are still two others, I think to myself.
I push the small hidden compartment closed.
I pull out my phone and look at the image I’ve marked up, selecting my next target.
I move to the second location, a small knot in the wood near the bottom-right drawer. This time, my fingers are steadier as I work the bobby pin into place. I’ve barely inserted it when I hear footsteps in the hallway outside.
Quickly, I scramble to my feet and grab a stack of papers, acting as if I’m reading them. The footsteps grow louder, and I try to steady my breathing. After a few agonizing moments, the sound of footsteps fades, and whoever was walking by the hall has left.
I return to the desk and crouch down again. I take a deep breath, my heart still racing from the close call, but the allure of the hidden compartment pulls me forward. I can’t give up now, not when I’m so close.
This time, I’m quicker with the bobby pin as I work it into the small opening near the bottom-right drawer.
There’s a click, louder than the first, and a larger compartment springs open. I peer inside, but again, disappointment washes over me.
Empty.
"Fuck," I mutter, frustration bubbling up inside me.
Before I can give in to my rage, I run my fingers along the inside of the compartment, probing for any hidden latches, anything that might indicate more than what meets the eye. The wood is smooth, polished, giving nothing away.
I tap. I push.
Nothing.
Wait.
I press my fingers against one wall of the compartment, and there it is.
There’s a slight give, a subtle shift in the wood on one side as I press against it. A false bottom. I push harder, and the thin wood panel in the bottom pops up.
"Holy shit," I whisper, my eyes widening.
There, nestled among the dust, is a worn, leather-bound book. It looks old, and the edges of the pages are yellowed and frayed with age. I blow the dust off and pick it up. I look around the room as if Enzo is standing behind me. I quickly shut the secret compartment and return to my desk.
I flip open the cover, the pages crackling as I do so. The script is faded, but still legible. It seems to be a diary, maybe. There’s a name embossed on the back of the cover. I squint, trying to decipher the name.
“V. Bonventi," I murmur, tracing the letters with my fingertip.
This must have belonged to Enzo’s grandfather, the man he spoke about with such reverence. The man whose desk I was explicitly forbidden from touching.
A wave of guilt comes over me, but it’s pushed out by the tremendous curiosity.
I have to read this.
The first page is blank except for a date:
September 15.
I turn to the next page and read over the first sentence.
Fuck, it’s all in Italian.
I pull out my phone, open the translation app, and snap a picture.
The ink is smudged in places, but I can still make out most of the words to translate:
"Today, I buried my brother," the entry begins. "The war may be over, but it still haunts us. Marco died not on some foreign battlefield, but here in Chicago, a victim of a rival family’s ambitions. God help me."
Wait, Enzo’s brother is named Marco? Maybe he’s named after his great uncle?
I’m so engrossed in the diary that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until it’s too late.
The library door swings open, and I drop the diary into my lap, reaching for some papers—anything to fill my hands with. Panic seizes me, but I try to act normal.
Enzo strides in, his eyes immediately landing on me.
"Livia," he says, his voice smooth. "I figured you’d be in here at this hour."
My heart stops. The diary feels like it's burning a hole in my lap. I swallow hard, hoping my guilt isn't written all over my face.