42.
AURORA VALEN?A
Sleeping beside Dante had been intimate.
Making love with him was devastating.
I would not call it making love aloud.
Sex.
A relapse.
A choice.
Any word except that one.
But my body knew.
It had not been only desire.
There was care.
History.
A tenderness I did not want to admit.
That night, after the children were asleep, I sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Lurdes.
She placed tea in front of me.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Do not insult my intelligence.”
“We had sex.”
“I knew.”
“How?”
“You returned with your blouse inside out.”
I looked down at my clothes.
I had corrected it.
“Dante’s buttons were wrong.”
“The children told me.”
Of course.
“Was it good?”
“Mrs. Lurdes.”
“You’re twenty-seven, not seventy.”
“It was.”
“And you’re terrified.”
“Very.”
“Because you enjoyed it.”
“Because perhaps I am repeating a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“Trusting.”
“Trust was not your mistake.”
“Choosing a man I did not know was.”
“You knew him. He failed.”
“That is worse.”
Mrs. Lurdes drank her tea.
“He may fail again.”
“Exactly.”
“So may you.”
“Not the same way.”
“Perhaps not the same. But you can hurt him.”
“Then what do I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Terrible help.”
“You want permission to love without risk. It does not exist.”
The word.
Love.
“I did not say I love him.”
“You don’t need to.”
“He thinks sex means progress.”
“Probably.”
“He said he accepts what I give.”
“Do you believe him?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
“Then the problem is you.”
“Thank you.”
“Always.”
The following day, Dante did not arrive early.
He sent a message.
I think it is better to give you space. May I collect the children with you at noon?
Space.
Part of me felt relieved.
Another part felt rejected.
Ridiculous.
Yes.
At eleven fifty, he stood outside the studio.
He did not enter.
I waited for him to knock.
He knocked.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Silence.
“How is your shoulder?”
“Good.”
“Lie?”
“Three.”
“All right.”
“And you?”
The question contained sex.
“Good.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“But.”
“I knew there would be one.”
“I don’t know what we are.”
“Neither do I.”
“You do. You want a relationship.”
“I do.”
“Marriage.”
“One day.”
“Family.”
“We are already parents to the same children.”
“Do not use that.”
“I am not saying we are a couple.”
“It sounds like you are.”
Dante breathed.
“I will say it clearly: I want to rebuild a relationship with you. I do not expect sex to have decided anything. I will not pressure you for marriage, a shared home, or exclusivity without discussing it.”
“Exclusivity?”
Jealousy came.
“Do you want other people?” he asked.
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then are we exclusive?”
“If we choose to be.”
“Is that dating?”
“Maybe.”
“Dante Ferraz saying maybe.”
“I’m growing.”
I smiled.
“I do not want to see anyone else.”
“Neither do I.”
“But I do not want to call it dating yet.”
“All right.”
“Does that bother you?”
“A little.”
“You can endure it.”
“I can.”
“And sex?”
The air changed.
“I want to repeat it,” he said.
Honest.
“So do I.”
“When?”
“Do not schedule it.”
“That was a joke.”
“It did not sound like one.”
“I can wait for an invitation.”
“Yours or mine.”
“All right.”
“And not while the children are present.”
“Definitely.”
“Or sleeping next door?”
“That limits us.”
“They’re three. They wake.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Hotel.”
I looked at him.
“You own hotels.”
“Not in Santa Brígida.”
“Yet.”
“I will not build one.”
“Good.”
“My house when they are with Mrs. Lurdes.”
“Maybe.”
“The studio.”
“No. It was reckless.”
“Very.”
“And good.”
“Very.”
The tension grew.
“We need to collect them,” I said.
“Yes.”
No kiss.
By choice.
During the drive, the telephone rang.
The investigator.
Otávio had formally proposed cooperation.
He would provide names, routes, and locations of pieces in exchange for a reduced sentence.
It included a confession concerning my parents.
“Will you accept?” Dante asked afterward.
“It is not my decision.”
“You may give an opinion.”
“I want the truth.”
“Even with a reduced sentence.”
“I hate it.”
“So do I.”
“But I want bodies? No. Pieces. Evidence. Everything.”
“Then tell the prosecutor.”
“I will.”
The children left school.
Elisa asked whether we were still “fitting.”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Kiss today?”
“Not your concern.”
“Then yes.”
Dante attempted to hide a smile.
“Do not encourage her,” I said.
“I said nothing.”
“Your face.”
Cecília held our hands.
“Fit slowly.”
“Exactly,” Dante said.
Tomás saw a dog and attempted to run.
We caught him together.
“Want dog!”
“No,” we answered.
“You agree.”
Inside the car, we received news that two pieces from the Valen?a Museum had been found in a warehouse in Uruguay.
Recovery was possible.
My heart accelerated.
“Can we bring them back?”
“After legal proceedings.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
“But they exist.”
“Yes.”
Dante touched my hand over the center console.
Asked with his eyes.
I allowed it.
“We will reopen,” I said.
“You will.”
“We.”
The word escaped.
Dante went still.
“The foundation,” I corrected. “The town. Specialists. The group making restitution.”
“We,” he repeated quietly.
“Do not turn it into something.”
“I won’t.”
But I had heard it too.
We.
That afternoon, we met with the prosecutor.
Otávio would confess to ordering the sabotage of my parents’ car.
He claimed Ant?nio Ferraz had not known about the murder, although he financed the art scheme.
Dante listened without reacting.
Then, alone in the corridor, he leaned against the wall.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“My father did not order the murder.”
“It seems not.”
“But he made it possible.”
“Yes.”
“Should that be a relief?”
“I don’t know.”
“It relieves me slightly.”
“You may allow that.”
“It feels like betrayal of your parents.”
“The dead do not demand that we suffer correctly.”
He looked at me.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Now.”
I took his hand.
“My father tried to stop it. Yours created it. We can choose another path.”
Dante did not answer immediately.
His fingers tightened around mine.
We stood in a corridor of the public prosecutor’s building, surrounded by closed doors, plastic chairs, and people passing with folders.
Nothing romantic.
Even so, it felt like one of the most intimate moments we had shared.
“I spent my life defending what he built,” he said.
“Your father?”
“The group. The name. Everything.”
“Because you thought it was a legacy.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
Dante looked at the wall.
“Part is crime. Part is legitimate work. Part is people with no connection to any of it.”
“You need to separate them.”
“Like restoration.”
“Do not use everything as a metaphor.”
“You began it.”
I almost smiled.
“What do you want to preserve?” I asked.
He thought.
“Employees. Hotels that support towns. Legally restored properties. Projects not born from the scheme.”
“And the name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t need to decide today.”
“The board decides without me.”
“You’re on leave, not dead.”
The word created a small silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“I still become…”
“So do I.”
The shooting remained.
“The audit may recommend selling the entire collection,” he said.
“Perhaps that is correct.”
“Even legally acquired pieces?”
“If they are private assets acquired lawfully, not necessarily. But perhaps they should be exhibited transparently with their provenance.”
“Would you work on that?”
The question surprised me.
“On the Ferraz Collection?”
“Provenance audit. Conservation. Loan policy.”
“I do not want to work for you.”
“Independent foundation.”
“Still connected.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
Dante nodded.
“All right.”
“You accept that?”
“I try.”
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Because you wanted me to?”
“Because I trust you more than any specialist.”
“That is a problem.”
“I know.”
We remained in the corridor.
Miguel came out of the prosecutor’s room.
“Otávio will provide the location of seven pieces today.”
“From the Valen?a Museum?” I asked.
“Four. The others belong to churches.”
“Where?”
“Two in Uruguay, three in Portugal, one in the United States, and one in a private collection in S?o Paulo.”
“The one in S?o Paulo may be recovered quickly.”
“If the owner cooperates.”
Dante asked:
“Who?”
Miguel handed over a sheet.
The name was familiar.
A Ferraz Group board member.
Sérgio Avelar.
The man who attempted to remove Dante.
“He knew,” I said.
“Probably,” Miguel replied.
Dante went still.
“The piece was purchased twelve years ago through álvaro.”
“While my father was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Sérgio voted to conceal the audit.”
“Yes.”
Anger appeared on Dante’s face.
Controlled.
That old brutal calm.
My body recognized it.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Contact the police and auditors.”
“Only that?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I asked because your jaw looks the same as it did at the altar.”
The sentence struck.
Dante deliberately relaxed it.
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I know.”
Miguel watched us.
“The investigator has already requested a warrant,” he said. “Do not contact him.”
“We won’t,” I answered.
I looked at Dante.
“I won’t.”
Did I trust him?
Yes.
A little more.
We left.
The children were still at school.
We had one hour before dismissal.
“I want to see the museum,” I said.
“Today?”
“We’re nearby.”
“Part of the building is sealed.”
“I have authorization through Miguel.”
“All right.”
We went.
The facade of the Valen?a Museum was covered in dirt.
The windows shut.
The garden overgrown.
The old sign remained.
My name.
My parents’ names.
Dante stopped beside me.
“I haven’t entered since…”
“The altar?”
“Before. The last time was one week before the wedding.”
“I was restoring the panel in Room Three.”
“I remember.”
“You brought lunch.”
“You forgot to eat.”
“Always.”
“You became angry because I moved a brush.”
“You removed it from the arrangement.”
“They looked identical.”
“They were not.”
Dante smiled.
Security opened the door.
We entered.
The smell came first.
Dust.
Wood.
Humidity.
Abandonment.
My chest tightened.
Reception was empty.
Paler marks on the walls showed where paintings once hung.
Protective coverings hid furniture.
Our footsteps echoed.
“It looks dead,” I said.
“It isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“You entered.”
I looked at him.
“Too beautiful.”
“True.”