Chapter Twenty-One
Taddeo
Taddeo discovered that jealousy made him stupid at eleven-fifteen on Wednesday morning, although he spent the first several minutes pretending the reaction had something to do with security.
He was in his office with Mauro Corsi's revised accounts open across two screens while Marco stood near the window summarizing the overnight reports, and there were at least four things more deserving of his attention than the filtered civilian account they had created for Isolde's museum contacts.
Felix Ordo remained missing. Peter Ansel had disappeared from his usual routine without technically vanishing.
Lelio continued finding reasons to insert himself into an investigation Taddeo had not invited him to join, and Silas Venn had sent another meticulously useful report connecting Serevin-adjacent freight companies to shell structures that looked increasingly designed to be discovered.
None of those facts prevented Taddeo from looking up the moment Marco mentioned a man named Paul.
“Linnea sent Friday's collections schedule even though she knows Isolde isn't attending,” Marco said, scrolling through the administrative list on his tablet.
“Marcus wants to know whether he's supposed to water the plant because apparently Linnea is killing it out of spite, and Paul sent another message this morning.
That's three from him since she disappeared.”
Taddeo set down his pen. “What did Paul want?”
Marco's eyes lifted slowly from the screen. “He asked whether she's all right, offered to cover two of her projects, and said he could bring anything by her apartment when she gets back. The behavior is extremely suspicious if you're unfamiliar with the concept of coworkers.”
“He doesn't need to bring anything to her apartment.”
“I don't believe she asked him to.”
“That isn't the point.”
Marco lowered the tablet. He had worked for Taddeo long enough to know exactly how far respect could stretch before becoming entertainment, and the expression appearing on his face suggested he intended to test the boundary. “What is the point?”
Taddeo picked up the pen again and immediately realized he no longer remembered which line of Mauro's ledger he had been reviewing. “How old is he?”
“Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Marco.”
The warning only made the other man's mouth twitch. “Thirty-four. Associate curator of maritime decorative arts. Four years at the museum. No criminal record, no unusual debt, no suspicious travel, and apparently no history of conspiring with hostile organized-crime families.”
“Relationship history?”
Marco stared at him.
Taddeo disliked the silence immediately. “What?”
“I am trying to decide whether there's a security reason I should know who the museum curator is sleeping with.”
“There could be.”
“There isn't.”
“You don't know that.”
“No, I know that if there were, you would already have given me three operational reasons instead of repeating his name like it personally offended you.” Marco folded his arms. “If you want a background investigation because Paul may pose a threat to Isolde, I'll run one.
If you want to know whether Paul has a girlfriend because he sent three polite messages to a missing colleague, I'm going to protect the dignity of this office and refuse.”
Taddeo leaned back. “You seem very concerned with dignity for a man standing there enjoying this.”
“I'm trying not to.”
“You're failing.”
“Badly.”
The office door had been left open because Orsino was expected within the hour, which meant neither man heard Isolde approach until her voice entered the conversation from the doorway.
“Please don't stop on my account. I would hate to interrupt an important security review.”
Taddeo looked toward her.
She stood with a folder tucked beneath one arm, dressed in dark jeans and a soft cream sweater, her mother's green scarf loose at her throat.
Her hair was pinned back badly enough that several strands had escaped around her face, and amusement had already brightened her eyes in a way that told him she'd heard far too much.
Marco tucked the tablet beneath his arm. “I was just leaving.”
“You were not,” Taddeo said.
“I've suddenly remembered several urgent responsibilities.”
“Coward,” Isolde told him as he passed.
Marco gave her a small, unapologetic smile and disappeared into the corridor.
Isolde closed the office door behind him and came farther inside. “Relationship history?”
“Security context.”
“That is fascinating, because I don't remember anything in museum emergency procedure requiring the underboss of the Bellandi Family to know whether the associate curator of maritime decorative arts is dating.”
Taddeo looked back at Mauro's account file. “You brought something?”
“Yes, but preservation fraud has become considerably less interesting than watching you pretend this is professional.” She placed the folder beside his elbow, then stayed standing instead of taking the chair across from him. “Paul asked me to dinner once.”
Taddeo's attention returned to her before he could stop it.
Isolde smiled.
He disliked how pleased she looked. “When?”
“Last winter. After the opening for the merchant-silver exhibition.”
“What did you tell him?”
“No.”
The immediate relief irritated him almost as much as Marco had.
Isolde saw it anyway. “There. That.”
“What?”
“That face.”
“I don't have a face.”
“You have several. This one is new.” She leaned one hip against the edge of his desk, apparently abandoning any effort to hide how much she was enjoying herself.
“For the sake of your investigation, Paul was very polite.
He asked once, I said I didn't want to complicate work, and he never made it awkward afterward.”
Taddeo looked down at the ledger. “Reasonable.”
“He's attractive.”
His pen stopped.
A quiet laugh escaped her. “This is much better than it should be.”
“Are you finished?”
“Not remotely. He has very good hair.”
“I don't care.”
“Nice hands too.”
Taddeo put the pen down carefully. “Isolde.”
She was openly smiling now. “You're jealous.”
“Yes.”
The direct answer caught her off guard.
Her smile faltered into surprise, then returned more slowly. “You could at least make me work for it.”
“Why? You already know.”
“I thought you'd call it security for another ten minutes.”
“I tried. Marco was uncooperative.”
That made her laugh again, though the sound faded when she studied him more closely. “You really don't like the idea of another man wanting me.”
“No.”
“Paul sending me messages bothers you.”
“Yes.”
“Corwin offering to get me out bothers you.”
Taddeo's jaw tightened. “That is not the same thing.”
“I didn't say it was.” Isolde traced one finger along the edge of the folder she'd brought. “But there is a common denominator.”
“Me.”
“Your desire to have some claim over me.”
The humor disappeared completely.
Taddeo remained seated for several seconds, watching her as the conversation shifted onto more dangerous ground.
The easy answer would have been denial. He could tell her concern about Corwin was operational, that Paul's messages were merely irritating, that wanting her did not mean wanting ownership.
The problem was that Isolde had become very good at recognizing his careful answers.
She moved a little closer. “Do you think you own me?”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Her expression sharpened, perhaps because she had expected a fight. “Do you want to?”
That required more honesty.
“Yes.”
Isolde inhaled slowly.
Taddeo did not look away. “You asked.”
“I know.” Her fingers moved once along the desk. “You actually mean it.”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean to you?”
Taddeo considered the question before answering, because anything glib would turn a complicated truth into something uglier than it needed to be.
“I want men like Paul to understand you're unavailable before they decide to ask.
I want Corwin to stop talking as though he can arrange your life without considering that somebody else might matter to you.
When you're outside this property, I want to know where you are and whether you're safe, and I dislike imagining anyone else believing they have the right to put their hands on you.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Some of that sounded suspiciously like security.”
“Some of it is.” He paused before adding the part he'd been avoiding. “Some isn't.”
Color began rising beneath her skin.
Taddeo noticed.
Isolde noticed him noticing and gave him a warning look. “Don't become pleased with yourself yet.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were about to.”
He almost smiled. “Possibly.”
She folded her arms. “Wanting and having are different.”
“Yes.”
The lack of resistance made her brows rise. “You agree.”
“I know I don't own you.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“Yes.”
“You still control whether I can leave Northglass.”
“Yes.”
“Marco receives reports detailed enough that you know how many messages a man from my museum sends me.”
Taddeo's jaw tightened, but the answer remained the same. “Yes.”
“And none of that means I actually belong to you.”
“No.” He held her gaze. “It means I have control over parts of your life I should not have had to begin with. It does not make you property.”
The tension in her face changed.
Not disappeared.
Changed.
Isolde uncrossed her arms and stepped closer until her knee touched the side of his chair. “That answer is inconvenient.”
“Why?”
“Because I'd prefer to stay angry.”
“You usually manage.”
She gave him a dry look, but one hand came to rest against the front of his shirt.
Taddeo looked down at it.
“You could stop touching me.”
“I could.”
“You aren't.”
“No.”
He pushed his chair back and stood, careful to leave enough room that Isolde was not trapped between his body and the desk. She stayed exactly where she was, head tipping slightly as she looked up at him.
“You came in here to discuss documents,” he said.
“I did.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm thinking.”
“About Paul?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That was childish.”
“I didn't claim otherwise.”