8. Valerio
VALERIO
Camillo’s signature is still drying on the agreement in the folder on my desk.
I stand by the window and look down at the street. My reflection stares back at me from the glass, dark suit, tired eyes, blood still dried in a thin line across one knuckle.
My phone lights up on the desk. A message from the man downstairs.
She’s home.
I read it once, then delete it.
I told myself security was necessary. Loan sharks have a hard time with boundaries. Camillo’s name may still attract desperate men. Federica needs eyes on her building tonight.
That is all true but it is not the whole truth.
I want to know she made it home because of the way she looked when she left my office. I want to know her door closed behind her. I want to know she is somewhere no one can reach unless I allow it.
That kind of wanting has no place in my life, but I allow myself a minute of it.
I walk back to the desk and open the bottom drawer.
The phone is inside.
It is not Valentina’s original phone. That one disappeared with her, along with my parents, six months ago. This is a replacement tied to her old accounts, her number, her cloud, her ridiculous collection of stickers and photos and half-written captions. Money makes most obscene things possible.
I told myself it was strategy at first. When my family vanished, I could not let the city know. A missing Greco patriarch was weakness. A missing Greco mother was leverage. A missing Greco daughter was a knife every enemy would want to twist.
So my parents went quiet for health reasons. My sister went to Europe. That was the story.
For six months, I've been keeping the lie alive.
I turn the phone over in my palm. The case is pale yellow, because Tina would have picked something childish to annoy me. She once told me black phone cases were for men who thought emotional constipation was a leadership style.
I told her to leave my phone case out of her amateur psychology.
What I wouldn't give to hear the rest of it now.
My thumb hovers over the screen for too long before I unlock it. Federica’s name is near the top of the messages. It always is.
After all, I barely reply to anyone else.
The first time I answered, it was to keep Federica from asking questions. She had texted Tina three days after the disappearance.
You alive, V? Haven’t heard from you since Paris. Rude.
I had stared at the message until the words stopped looking like words.
Then I typed what Valentina would have typed.
Barely. Paris is ninety percent stairs and judgmental waiters. Miss you. xx
Federica sent back a laughing emoji and a paragraph about a client who wanted a bouquet of naturally teal roses.
I read it compulsively for two days straight.
The danger wasn't the risk of being discovered. I know my sister well enough to play the part, and her text history fills the gaps I can't.
The true danger was wanting the next message to come.
And the next, and the next, and the next.
I set the phone on the desk and stare at it.
Tina would text her tonight. Wouldn't she?
No, says the rational part of me. She wouldn't. She would have had no way of knowing what went down.
But I still open the thread.
Then I type.
TINA: Hey. Heard my brother was an asshole to you tonight. You okay? xx
For three seconds, nothing happens.
Then the typing bubbles appear.
My hand stills on the desk.
FEDE: Yeah, he was a real prince.
The corner of my mouth moves before I stop it.
There she is.
Angry. Hurt. Still sharp enough to draw blood.
Good. I would rather have her furious than broken.
TINA: Wanna talk about it?
FEDE: Nope. Tell me about Lisbon.
I sit back.
Lisbon.
Valentina and Federica planned that trip when they were twenty-one. I know because Tina talked about it for weeks. Two girls, two backpacks, no itinerary strict enough for Valentina to respect and no budget loose enough for Federica to stop worrying.
Then Federica’s parents cut off her tuition, and the trip became one more thing she lost without making a scene.
I hated them for that before I had any right to.
I still do.
I pull up the file Tito keeps for the cover story. Photos, dates, harmless details. Nothing that would hold up under serious investigation, but enough for casual texts from a friend who wants to believe the person answering her is exactly who she says she is.
That is the worst part.
Federica trusts Tina.
Which means, tonight, she trusts me.
I type carefully.
TINA: Lisbon remains superior to all other cities. Orange tiles, pretty boys, and an apartment with a sea view I am pretending I can afford. You’d hate the stairs and love the pastry.
I pause, then add what Tina would add if she knew Federica was hurting and wanted to pull her toward tomorrow.
TINA: We should go back together someday. When all this drama blows over.
TINA: Whatever the drama even is, because fucked if Rio would tell me.
The name sits there in the blue bubble.
Rio.
I have not been that man in six months. Maybe longer.
The bubbles appear again.
FEDE: Now I’m hungry. Send proof of life via custard tart.
Proof of life.
My chest tightens so hard I have to set the phone down.
I do not know if Valentina is alive tonight.
That is the truth under every lie. I do not know if my sister is eating. Sleeping. Bleeding. I do not know if my parents are still breathing. Riccardo comes here at nine, and I already know enough to dread what he will put in front of me.
Proof of life.
If I had it, real proof, I would tear the country apart with my bare hands to get to her.
Instead, I pick the phone back up and give Federica one more lie.
TINA: Bossy. I missed you.
A mistake.
I see it the second I send it.
Tina would say I miss you. Not I missed you. Not to Federica, who has been texting her for months. Missing someone implies absence. Distance. An empty space the lie has worked too hard to cover.
FEDE: Miss you too, Tina.
I exhale with relief. She didn't notice.
FEDE: Gonna hit the hay now.
I type a joke before I can think better of it. Humor is a rare luxury in my life, but I know Federica will appreciate it coming from Tina.
TINA: What are you, a cowboy?
FEDE: I wish. I’d honestly take shoveling horseshit over the metaphorical horseshit my life has become in the past 24 hours.
TINA: Wow. Poetic.
TINA: I’ll be expecting a follow-up on that. When you’re feeling better.
A promise I have no right to ask for.
FEDE: It’s a date. Goodnight, V.
I stop breathing.
V.
She means Valentina. Of course she does. She has called my sister that for years.
Still, the letter hits somewhere it should not.
For one weak, unforgivable second, I let myself imagine she knows. That she is saying goodnight to me. Not the capo. Not the man who bought her from her brother with debt forgiveness and a contract. Just me.
Rio.
The thought is so dangerous I kill it immediately.
TINA: Goodnight, F. Sleep tight.
I watch the thread until her final message appears.
FEDE: You too.
Then nothing.
I set the account to offline.
My office is still quiet. The city moves below the window. Somewhere across town, Federica is lying in bed believing at least one Greco is still her friend.
She must never know the truth.
If she does, it would break us both.