Chapter Eight #2
This time he actually smiled, brief enough that it disappeared before she could decide what to do with the sight of it. “I'll try to restrain myself.”
Footsteps approached from the corridor before Isolde could answer, and Elettra appeared at the library door with a man Isolde had never seen before.
He was not what she expected from the Bellandi Family.
He looked to be in his late sixties, silver hair carefully combed back, navy suit immaculate without looking showy. His expression carried the mild warmth of a retired professor or diplomat, the sort of face strangers probably trusted almost immediately.
That made him more unsettling, not less.
Taddeo stood. “Orsino.”
The older man's attention settled on Isolde with unmistakable curiosity. “And this must be Ms. Dacre.”
Isolde stayed seated. “I'm beginning to feel like I've been circulated in a newsletter.”
Orsino smiled. “Only a very selective one.”
Taddeo took his coat and hung it over a chair, a small domestic gesture that looked strange beside everything Isolde knew about both men.
Orsino came around the table and offered his hand. “Orsino Bellandi.”
“Isolde Dacre, although apparently we're past introductions.”
“I read efficiently.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“I've been told I have a calming presence.”
“By people who know what you do?”
That made him laugh, warm and genuine enough that Isolde distrusted him more.
He sat beside her and opened the leather portfolio he'd brought, removing several photocopied pages and a pair of reading glasses. “Taddeo tells me you have opinions about our records.”
Isolde looked across the table. “That's how you summarized it?”
“He used more words,” Orsino said. “I'm improving it.”
Taddeo picked up his coffee and looked entirely too innocent.
Orsino slid a page toward her. “Tell me what you see.”
Isolde didn't touch it. The reproduction appeared to show an older municipal record, possibly a redevelopment approval or preservation assessment. “You're testing me.”
“I'm asking your opinion.”
“You've selected one document out of however many you brought, so no, you're testing me.”
Orsino considered that for a moment. “All right. A little.”
“Why?”
“Taddeo says you're observant.”
Isolde's gaze flicked toward him. “He says that?”
Taddeo's expression tightened. “Don't make it strange.”
“I wasn't planning to until you said that.”
Orsino's amusement deepened. “Would you indulge an old man?”
“You're a mafia consigliere. I don't think you qualify for the harmless-old-man discount.”
“Excellent.”
Refusing him had suddenly become less satisfying than proving whatever point he thought he was making. Isolde pulled the photocopy closer.
The reproduction was poor enough that most of the physical evidence she'd normally rely on had vanished, but the structure remained readable. She examined the heading, project number, seal, signature placement, margin marks, and the faint line of what might have been an old fold.
“If you're asking whether it's authentic, I can't tell you from this.”
“Why?”
“Because it's a photocopy. I can't examine the paper, ink, seal construction, physical impressions, or determine whether marks in the image are damage to the original or artifacts from copying.”
Orsino adjusted his glasses. “Can you tell me anything?”
“I can tell you whether whoever made it understood what this kind of document should look like.”
“And did they?”
Isolde looked again.
Something near the lower third bothered her.
“There are two typefaces.”
Taddeo moved closer.
She indicated the project identifier. “This doesn't match the body. That could be legitimate if it was added later, but the spacing is wrong for the surrounding material. And the seal is too clean.”
“Too clean,” Orsino repeated.
“The rest of the reproduction has lost detail through copying. That seal hasn't lost the same detail. It looks like it entered the image later.”
Orsino's expression changed just enough to confirm she'd found what he wanted.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You already had someone examine it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why am I doing this?”
“Because the person who examined it understands accounting fraud.” Orsino folded his hands over the portfolio. “You understand physical records. Different expertise creates different questions.”
Isolde watched him for a moment.
He wasn't merely checking whether she could spot an inconsistency. He wanted to know how she handled uncertainty, whether she claimed more than the evidence allowed.
“You're not testing whether I'm smart.”
Taddeo's gaze shifted toward her.
Orsino remained pleasantly attentive. “What am I testing?”
“Whether I know when I don't know enough.”
The older man's smile lost some of its amusement and became something closer to approval. “Much rarer.”
“Do I pass?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Convenient.”
“I've had good teachers.”
For the next hour, they moved through pieces of Corwin's recent activity, but the conversation stayed tighter than Isolde expected.
Taddeo and Orsino showed her dates, categories of documents, and several redevelopment records without exposing the deeper Bellandi account structure.
In return, she reconstructed what she could remember: Corwin complaining about repetitive invoices, asking how copied damage behaved in scans, wanting to know where older harbor maps were kept, and bringing her the Harbor Pilot shortly before he disappeared.
None of those things had seemed important alone.
Together, they looked disturbingly deliberate.
“He knew something,” Isolde said eventually.
“Probably,” Taddeo replied.
“He could have told me.”
Neither man answered quickly enough.
Isolde looked between them. “There are two professional criminals in the room making the same face. What?”
Orsino removed his glasses. “Your brother may have believed telling you would put you in danger.”
“Instead he disappeared without telling me and I ended up here.”
Taddeo's jaw tightened, but he didn't defend himself.
“I wasn't asking for a rebuttal,” she said.
“I know.”
Before the conversation could settle into something heavier, a knock came at the library door. One of the house staff stepped inside and looked directly at Taddeo.
“Marco needs you downstairs. It's about Ferretti.”
Taddeo's expression closed instantly. “What happened?”
The man glanced toward Isolde.
That was enough to make her straighten.
Taddeo followed him into the hall and pulled the door mostly closed.
Isolde watched it for several seconds. “You know what that means?”
Orsino gathered the papers into his portfolio. “I know Rico Ferretti.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
“You all do that.”
“Answer the adjacent question?”
“Yes.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Is he dangerous?”
Orsino considered the wording before he answered. “Rico is young enough to believe proximity to dangerous men makes him more important than it does.”
“That sounds like yes with decoration.”
“It often is.”
Taddeo returned less than twenty minutes later.
Nothing visible suggested violence. His clothes were unchanged, his hands clean, his expression controlled. Even so, the room seemed different when he entered.
Orsino looked at him. “Handled?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Off the property.”
Orsino stood and closed his portfolio. “Then my timing appears excellent.”
Taddeo gave him a look. “You're leaving.”
“I had already reached that conclusion.”
Orsino collected his coat, gave Isolde a courteous nod, and left with entirely too much amusement in his expression.
The door closed behind him.
Isolde turned to Taddeo. “What happened?”
He began gathering the remaining paperwork. “Nothing you need to deal with.”
“My patience for that sentence is getting very limited.”
Taddeo stopped.
“Was it about me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He made a comment.”
“What kind?”
“The kind he won't make again.”
Isolde crossed her arms. “What did he call me?”
Taddeo's mouth tightened.
She didn't need the exact word anymore. “Something about your captive.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Or worse.”
“He was told how you're to be treated while you're here.” Taddeo placed the papers into a folder with more precision than the task required. “Respectfully. Left alone unless security requires otherwise. And not discussed like entertainment.”
That last part told her enough.