20. Victoria
VICTORIA
By noon, everyone in the laboratory knows.
Nobody approaches me and says it outright. Instead, conversations fade when I walk past. Voices drop near the storage shelves. Heads turn away a fraction too quickly whenever I glance up.
The news moves through the room faster than any official announcement ever could.
I am standing at the steel table reviewing stability reports when Salvatore walks in with a folder under his arm. One look at his face tells me why he is here.
“The last batch pulled through,” he says.
My hand stills on the edge of the table.
Salvatore adjusts his glasses and glances around the room. Several technicians immediately find new interest in their work.
“No contamination,” he continues. “Everything arrived exactly as expected.”
A breath leaves me.
Only then do I realise I have been carrying tension in my chest for days.
“That’s all?” I ask.
“That’s all I know.”
I nod.
For a moment, he lingers. It seems he wants to add another comment, but he changes his mind and walks away.
The whispers return almost immediately.
Not because anyone learned anything new.
Because now they are watching me.
The woman behind the formula.
The woman whose work reached the Don himself.
I hate the attention.
Curiosity makes people careless.
Admiration makes them worse.
I lower my eyes to the reports and force myself to focus.
Purity levels.
Storage conditions.
Production records.
Every figure sits exactly where it should.
“Miss Vitale?”
I look up.
One of the technicians stands nearby holding a clipboard.
Yesterday, he barely looked at me unless I repeated myself. Today he waits patiently for my attention.
“The cooling logs you requested,” he says. “I corrected the timing columns.”
I take the clipboard.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
The answer nearly pulls a laugh from me.
A week ago, most of these men spoke around me rather than to me. My instructions were questioned. My corrections were ignored until someone else repeated them.
Now they wait for my approval before touching the equipment.
Fear changes people faster than respect ever does.
The afternoon passes beneath a mountain of paperwork.
I review reports.
Correct avoidable mistakes.
Check inventory records.
Adjust production schedules.
All the while pretending the knot inside my chest has not returned.
Around me, the laboratory shifts in small ways.
A technician clears space before I reach a workstation.
Someone wipes down my table without being asked.
Fresh coffee appears beside my notes, and no one claims responsibility.
No jokes.
No comments.
Just quiet acts of consideration.
By late afternoon, the change has spread beyond the laboratory walls.
I feel it in the hallways.
Guards nod when I pass.
House staff step aside before I reach them.
Men I have never spoken to move out of my path without hesitation.
The estate has adjusted itself around me.
I wish I did not notice.
What unsettles me more is the small, exhausted part of myself that feels grateful for it.
My shift should end in three hours.
Instead, I stay.
The next production schedule still needs checking.
I am halfway through writing notes about storage temperatures when the atmosphere changes.
The laboratory door opens.
Conversation stops.
Movement slows.
The silence arrives first.
I already know who stands in the doorway before I lift my head.
Lorenzo never announces himself.
When I look up, he is standing near the entrance in a dark suit.
The technicians immediately return to their work with exaggerated dedication.
Nobody wants his attention.
Nobody is foolish enough to invite it.
His gaze settles on me.
“Victoria.”
My pulse stumbles.
“Don.”
“Walk with me.”
The words sound polite.
They are not a request.
I close the folder, remove my gloves, and follow him from the laboratory.
The silence trails after us until the door closes behind our backs.
Only then do I speak.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
His answer comes without hesitation.
“Then why am I here?”
A faint trace of amusement touches his mouth.
“You assume I only appear when there is a problem.”
“You usually do.”
The expression vanishes as quickly as it arrived.
We continue down the corridor until we reach a large window overlooking the courtyard below.
Guards stand watch beneath the afternoon sun.
Lorenzo stops.
“So far,” he says, “everything I have heard about your work has been favourable.”
The words catch me off guard.
Praise is not currency I trust.
“Thank you.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
His eyes settle on mine.
“For someone intelligent, you have very little understanding of your own worth.”
The words strike harder than they should.
Nobody has ever said them to me before.
Not colleagues.
Certainly not my father.
Before I can answer, Lorenzo reaches inside his jacket and removes a cream-coloured envelope.
He places it on the table beside us.
“What is that?”
“An invitation.”
I stare at it.
“To what?”
“A dinner tonight.”
My attention snaps back to him.
“A dinner?”
“Yes.”
“With you?”
“With me. And several guests.”
“What guests?”
“Men from Italy. They arrived this morning.”
The answer settles heavily in my stomach.
In Lorenzo’s world, men from Italy are rarely harmless visitors.
They are men with influence.
Men accustomed to power.
Men who already know more than they should.
“No.”
The answer leaves my mouth immediately.
Lorenzo remains unmoved.
“You haven’t opened it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You don’t know what I’m asking.”
“I know enough.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
“You are asking me to walk into a room full of wolves and smile through dinner.”
“Most people choose gentler descriptions.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face.
“I noticed.”
Heat rises into my cheeks.
I hate that he notices that too.
Lorenzo rests one hand against the edge of the table.
“It is a celebration.”
“For what?”
“For your success.”
“The work belongs to you.”
“No.”
His voice is calm.
“The work belongs to you.”
The simple certainty behind the words steals my response.
No speech or grand gesture.
I look away first.
“That does not mean I want to be displayed.”
“You won’t be.”
“Then why invite me?”
His expression remains unchanged.
“Because you spend every day inside that laboratory.”
I say nothing.
“You barely sleep.”
Still nothing.
“You forget to eat until your food is cold.”
My eyes return to him.
“You pay attention to all that?”
“I pay attention to everything inside my house.”
“Am I a problem?”
“Yes.”
The answer arrives so quickly that I almost laugh.
Almost.
Lorenzo continues before I can respond.
“Tonight there will be food, music, and conversation. You can spend one evening thinking about something other than production reports.”
“My mind rests perfectly well.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I hate how easily he says it.
Mostly because he is right.
The past weeks have become numbers, formulas, security doors, and endless questions.
Even in sleep, the laboratory follows me.
Machines hum behind my eyelids.
White crystals glitter beneath fluorescent lights.
Memories refuse to stay buried.
I push the envelope back toward him.
“I don’t want to be involved.”
“You already are.”
The words land harder than either of us intended.
“That is not a reason to make it worse.”
Silence settles between us.
Finally, Lorenzo picks up the envelope.
“You can refuse.”
I blink.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I study his face.
“You are giving me a choice?”
“Yes.”
“You are not going to order or threaten me?”
“No.”
“Remind me that I am here because you decided it?”
His jaw shifts slightly.
A tiny crack in the armour.
“No.”
I fold my arms.
“I will send a package to your room,” he says.
“I already said no.”
“I heard you.”
“Then do not send it.”
“It will be there if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Then leave it unopened.”
My patience begins to fray.
“What kind of package?”
His gaze drops briefly to the ink stain near my wrist before returning to my face.
“A package.”
I stare at him.
“What’s in it? Who chose it?”
“Someone whose profession involves making better decisions about that than I can.”
The answer is irritatingly reasonable.
“Lorenzo.”
He stills when I use his name.
The reaction lasts only a moment.
“I do not want to dress up and smile for men I have never met.”
“You won’t be dressing for them.”
The reply arrives quietly.
My throat tightens.
Neither of us speaks.
I lower my gaze to the notebook.
Looking at him feels dangerous.
Lorenzo steps back first.
“If you decide to come, tell the guard outside your room.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you stay in your room.”
I am not certain I believe him.
Still, he places the envelope back into my hand and turns toward the corridor.
A few steps later, he stops.
Without looking at me, he speaks.
“Do not disappoint me, Victoria.”
The warmth disappears from his voice.
“I am not talking about the invitation.”
There it is.
The reminder hidden beneath every kindness.
The warning beneath every compliment.
I swallow.
“I won’t.”
His gaze returns to me.
For a moment, an emotion flickers across his face.
Gone before I can name it.
Then he walks away.
Just like that.
Leaving me alone beside the window with an envelope in my hand and a thousand thoughts I do not want.
I stare at my name written across the front in black ink.
Victoria Vitale.
The envelope feels heavier than paper should.
After a long moment, I turn and head back to the laboratory.
Work is easier than thinking.
Hours later, when I finally leave, two guards fall into step behind me.
The hallway stretches ahead.
Longer than I remember.
The envelope remains tucked beneath my arm.
I tell myself I won’t open it.
Twenty minutes later, I am still staring at the envelope.
The package is already waiting for me when I reach my suite.
A white box sits in the middle of the bed, tied with a black satin ribbon. No note. No signature.
I remain by the door for a moment, staring at it.
The sensible thing would be to leave it untouched.
The stronger thing would be to throw it out and make a point.
Instead, I close the door behind me and walk farther into the room.