CHAPTER 29
ELENA
Vittorio arrived with breakfast.
He carried the tray himself.
Coffee, toast, fruit and a small vase containing white roses.
I looked at the flowers.
“What?”
He placed the tray on the table.
“Your mother loved them.”
“No.”
His hands paused.
“She loved gardenias.”
“Of course.”
The correction came too quickly.
He knew.
Everyone in the family knew, or believed they did, because our mother had worn gardenia perfume at formal events. The roses had been Vittorio’s choice for years.
A small mistake meant nothing.
A series of them created a person.
“I heard you left Nico,” he said.
“I left his house.”
“That is not the same?”
“I have not decided.”
Vittorio poured coffee.
Too much milk.
I watched him set the cup in front of me.
Nico had corrected the amount after one mistake.
Vittorio had known me most of my life and still prepared the version he thought a grieving woman should accept.
“You look tired,” he said.
“I am.”
“Carlo said you confronted him.”
“He admitted signing the transfers.”
“Your father signed many things.”
“So did you.”
His expression remained gentle.
“As counsel.”
“The insurer records show you approved the water-damage claim after the weapons were supposedly destroyed.”
“I handled Ravelin’s legal matters.”
“And Aurelia.”
“Yes.”
“Lucian Vieri?”
“A client’s son.”
“Paolo?”
A pause.
“Who?”
“My old driver.”
Recognition came slowly enough to be performed.
“He worked for the family years ago.”
“He helped abduct Sofia.”
Vittorio sat.
His concern appeared genuine.
It might have been.
“When did you learn this?”
“After she recognized him.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“I did not know whether I could.”
The hurt in his face made me want to apologize.
That instinct had been trained over years.
It was not evidence.
“Elena, I have protected you since your mother died.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe I would harm Sofia?”
“I do not know what to believe.”
He reached across the table.
I allowed him to take my hand.
His thumb covered the scar near my finger.
“You are surrounded by people using grief to make you suspicious.”
“Nico?”
“Especially Nico.”
“He gave me the exit agreement.”
“After ensuring you needed him.”
“He gave me every file.”
“After deciding what you would see.”
“He was changing.”
“Men like Nico do not change. They adjust their methods.”
The sentence struck too close to the plan I had found.
Vittorio saw.
His expression softened.
“What did he do?”
I looked away.
He squeezed my hand.
“Elena.”
“He prepared to use me as bait.”
Anger entered his face.
Real anger.
“I will kill him.”
“No.”
The speed of his reaction told me something.
He needed the marriage broken.
Perhaps he also cared.
Again, both could be true.
“The plan was never used,” I said.
“That does not matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Because you love him?”
The question arrived quietly.
I had not used the word.
Neither had Nico.
“I do not know.”
Vittorio looked down at our hands.
“I wish Marco were here.”
“So do I.”
“He would never have allowed this.”
I thought of the video.
Marco had allowed all of it.
Designed part of it.
Regretted it too late.
“He made mistakes,” I said.
“We all do.”
“Did he surprise you that night?”
Vittorio’s fingers stopped.
“What?”
“At the hotel. When he discovered the route.”
A brief confusion appeared.
Then he smiled sadly.
“Marco always surprised me.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I was not at the hotel when he died.”
“I know.”
The answer came before I accused him of being there.
I kept my expression neutral.
Vittorio released my hand and reached for his coffee.
“Carlo told me Marco planned to meet an Orsini,” he said. “I tried to stop him.”
“How?”
“I told security to close the private service route.”
The route had remained open.
“Why that route?”
“Marco preferred it.”
He had not.
Marco used the executive elevator whenever possible because he hated the smell of industrial detergent in the service corridors.
“Did you see him after he was shot?” I asked.
Vittorio’s eyes sharpened.
“No.”
“Then how did you know he looked surprised?”
Silence.
He placed the cup down.
“I did not say that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“When?”
The question came too quickly.
He was searching the conversation rather than the memory.
“At the hotel after I left Nico. You said Marco seemed surprised when he saw the person who entered.”
Vittorio leaned back.
“Elena, you were exhausted.”
“I remember.”
“You have been under extreme pressure.”
“You knew where he was standing.”
“No.”
“You knew the service route.”
“Everyone did.”
“You knew he was surprised.”
“I may have repeated something Carlo said.”
“Carlo did not see him.”
The warmth left his face.
Not completely.
Enough.
Affection had concealed the man beneath the uncle.
Patient.
Intelligent.
Calculating whether I had proof or only instinct.
I lowered my eyes.
“I am sorry.”
His suspicion paused.
“I have not slept,” I continued. “I am turning every sentence into evidence.”
Vittorio relaxed by degrees.
“You need rest.”
“Yes.”
“Come home.”
“Not yet.”
“Then allow me to place my men outside.”
“I already have guards.”
“Hotel employees.”
“People I chose.”
His mouth tightened.
“They cannot protect you from Nico.”
“Nico is not here.”
“That has never prevented him from controlling the room.”
The line would have convinced me yesterday.
Now it sounded prepared.
I looked at the white roses.
“Did Marco know you were working with Leonard Vieri?”
Vittorio did not answer immediately.
“He suspected many people.”
“Did he suspect you?”
“He was grieving your mother, fighting with Carlo and trying to prove himself.”
Our mother had been dead for years.
Marco’s grief was real, but invoking it now was a way to make his investigation emotional rather than accurate.
“He recorded a video,” I said.
The color left Vittorio’s face.
Only a little.
Enough.
“What did he say?”
There it was.
Not surprise that a video existed.
Fear of its content.
“I have not watched all of it.”
A lie.
“What remains?”
“I do not know. Nico kept part.”
Vittorio stood.
“We need to retrieve it.”
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
The phrase had become a confession spoken by too many men.
I looked up at him.
“From what?”
He opened his mouth.
No answer came.
A knock sounded at the door.
Thomas entered.
He carried a hotel report and wore an expression of professional apology.
“Ms. Bellandi, the supplier audit you requested.”
“I did not request one.”
Thomas stopped.
I saw the moment he understood.
“Perhaps I misunderstood the message.”
“Leave it.”
He placed the folder on the desk and left.
The interruption gave Vittorio time to recover.
He adjusted his cuffs.
“Rest today. I will speak with Carlo.”
“About what?”
“Your marriage.”
“I decide what happens to my marriage.”
His expression softened again.
“Of course.”
The lie was almost affectionate.
He kissed my forehead.
I remained still.
At the door, he turned.
“Marco should have trusted us before trusting an Orsini.”
The sentence matched the language from the gala note.
Marco should have accepted the cost.
Not proof.
A pattern.
After he left, I locked the door and opened Thomas’s folder.
Inside was no supplier audit.
A note in Thomas’s handwriting read:
Your uncle’s car entered the hotel garage at 11:08 the night Marco died. The plate was manually removed from the archive the next morning. I found the backup.
Beneath it was a photograph.
Vittorio stepping from the car near the private service entrance.
He had lied.
He had been there.
I called Nico.
He answered immediately.
“Elena.”
No accusation.
No question about why I had waited.
“I know who killed Marco,” I said.
Silence.
Then, “Tell me what you need.”
Not what he would do.
What I needed.
I looked at the chair by the door, the white roses and the photograph of my uncle entering the hotel.
“I need you to follow my plan.”
“Yes.”
“You have not heard it.”
“Yes.”
His trust arrived before his conditions.