Fourteen
Ciro
The private room at Waterbar restaurant sits above the boardwalk that runs along the battery. Today, we’re meeting off-site to plan and strategize without distractions.
Through the glass walls, the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge stretches toward Treasure Island. Cargo ships move beneath it with steady patience, measured in clearance and tide. Out there, everything operates on calculation.
Inside, it’s just the four of us.
Dante sits at the head of the table because he’s the CEO and our oldest brother.
Luca leans back in his chair, relaxed in posture but alert in focus.
Matteo holds a pen between his fingers, not because he needs notes but because he thinks better when something moves.
I take the seat to Dante’s right. CFO. The one expected to see the fracture before it becomes visible.
Our phones rest in a neat stack in the center of the table, screens dark.
Dante looks at me. “Walk us through it.”
I don’t reach for a laptop. I don’t need one.
“We’re overexposed in emerald.”
Matteo’s pen stops mid-turn. Across from me, Luca moves forward an inch, his elbow coming off the armrest. Dante doesn’t move.
“For the GEM show?” Luca asks, turning his head toward me.
“Yes.”
Dante nods once, slow. “We’re entering our mother’s design. It was always going to be emerald.”
“I’m not questioning the design,” I say, keeping my eyes on him. “I’m questioning concentration. We’ve shifted too much overhead into a single stone heading into a competition we haven’t won.”
Luca leans forward now, forearms on the table. “Amal beat us on execution last year.”
“They produce lab-grown gems,” I answer, not looking at him. “And we’re betting this necklace is going to make natural emeralds desirable again.” I tap the table lightly once. “We bought heavily into the market before the launch, and now, prices are climbing because supply is tighter.”
I glance up at him then. “Which means a lot of money is tied to whether people keep believing our necklace is going to make natural emeralds worth chasing.”
“Our brand isn’t built on caution,” Dante says, his voice even.
I snort. “Our margin is.”
Matteo’s pen resumes, a quiet tap against the table surface. He glances between us. “You’d rather lean further into diamonds?”
“Yes.”
“Our rough diamond business is hot because of Olivier’s Frosted series,” Luca says, sitting back again but watching me closely. “Which came out of this show, and we weren’t even Best in Show. We’re still riding that wave.”
“We’re dependent on it,” I reply. “If it cools, we’re exposed.”
“Ellory just told me that they’ve developed new settings for the rough diamonds because the interest is still high.”
“That’s good,” I reply.
Dante’s hand rests flat on the table. “Our Nevada mine isn’t producing enough jewelry-grade stone to sustain expansion.”
“Which is exactly my point.”
He studies me across the table, not blinking.
“You’re suggesting outside sourcing.”
“I’m suggesting options.” I keep my tone level. “Additional natural supply. Or lab-grown.”
Luca’s head comes up immediately. “No. We can’t go fake.”
Dante’s jaw tightens, just enough to register. “We don’t dilute Luster with synthetic.”
“Lab-grown isn’t fake or synthetic,” I say evenly, meeting his gaze. “It’s chemically identical. Market perception is shifting.”
“Our clients aren’t buying chemistry,” Luca says, his fingers flattening against the table. “They’re buying rarity.”
“They’re buying narrative,” I reply. “Price access is part of that.”
Dante folds his hands together in front of him, elbows on the table now. “We built Luster on real stones.”
“Where it comes from doesn’t matter,” I reply. “People are looking for a deal and lab grown are identical and maybe even stronger than emeralds. You pay me to worry about this.”
The room stills.
Matteo looks between us, the pen turning once in his fingers before he stills it. “If we go all in on emerald and lose again, we look like we misread the room. If we switch now, it looks like we don’t believe in the piece.”
“I’m not saying we switch,” I say, keeping my eyes on Dante. “I’m saying we don’t bet the quarter on a win we don’t control.”
Luca shifts forward. “Mom’s necklace is incredible. Regardless, I believe the emerald demand will spike. That’s the whole play.”
“And if we don’t,” I say, sliding the quarterly projections across the table toward Dante, “we’re sitting on inventory we can’t move at the same margin.”
The renderings of the emerald necklace stay open on the screen behind him, green light reflecting faintly across the glass wall of the conference room. Even unfinished, the piece dominates the entire presentation.
Dante looks back toward the rendering again. “Our mother’s design goes in exactly as she drew it.”
“I agree.” I rest my forearms against the edge of the table. “I’m saying we don’t build the entire quarter around the assumption it takes Best in Show.”
Silence stretches across the room for a second.
Beyond the windows, fog hangs low over the bay while traffic crawls along the Embarcadero below us.
Dante’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he reaches for the crystal glass beside him and takes a slow drink. “We adjust volume.”
“Yes.”
“And anything outside the approved line stays internal.”
“That makes sense.”
He sets the glass down beside the stack of gemstone sourcing reports. “Nothing carries the Luster name unless all four of us agree to it first.”
“That’s fair.”
The room quiets again after that, the kind that only happens between people who already know the argument isn’t really about inventory anymore.
Dante’s gaze drops briefly toward the original sketch sitting beside his laptop, our mother’s handwriting still visible along the edge of the paper.
“She never got to see it win,” he says quietly.
Across from me, Luca straightens. Matteo lowers the pen to the table, his fingers flattening over it.
“She sketched that piece at the kitchen table,” Dante continues, still measured. His eyes stay down for a moment before lifting again. “None of you are old enough to remember, but she said emerald was unforgiving. It either glowed or it died. No middle.”
We’ve talked about this before.
“She wanted to create this,” he says. “She didn’t want it redesigned or diluted. This is exactly what it was meant to be.”
Amal has taken Best in Show two years running. This year we’re putting forward something our mother never meant for a stage, only for a page. We’re the ones turning it into a contender.
If the necklace takes off, demand for emeralds climbs with it. And if it doesn’t, we’re still the ones holding the inventory.
Around the table, chairs scrape softly against the floor as people start to stand.
We break to check in with the office. Dante moves first, already pulling his phone from the stack. Luca follows, heading for the hall. Matteo lingers by the window, looking out toward the port, the cranes cutting into the skyline.
“You’re not wrong about the emeralds,” he says without turning. The pen is back in his hand, moving again. “What’s going on with you?”
“Walk with me.”
He glances over and then pushes off the glass.
We take the stairs instead of the elevator. The noise from the restaurant fades as the door closes behind us. Outside, the boardwalk is thinner now, the lunch rush gone. Wind cuts off the bay, sharp enough to register.
“What is it?” he asks as we fall into step.
“I started auditing Marino Holdings.”
He glances at me. “We audit it every quarter.”
“Not like this.” I keep my pace even as we cross the street. “I went back before Mom and Dad died. Before the restructuring. Before Tom formalized his role.”
He stops.
I take another step before I realize he isn’t beside me anymore.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“I’m saying there’s almost nothing,” I tell him as we walk. “Minimal operating history. Minimal assets.” I glance at him. “It’s as if the company didn’t exist in any meaningful way until after the accident.”
Matteo shakes his head once, immediate. “That’s not accurate.”
“I know that, but where are the records?” I cut a look at him as we reach the curb. “Contracts. Payroll. Infrastructure. Anything that resembles what the company was doing.”
He doesn’t answer.
We cross. The wind hits harder on the other side, pushing at my coat.
“After the funeral,” I continue, “capital appears. Lines of credit expand. Partnerships solidify.” I slow slightly so he has to match me. “Marino Holdings stabilizes faster than it should have.”
He exhales through his nose. “You think that’s suspicious.”
“I think the timeline is too clean.”
He glances at me. “You’re implying Tom benefited.”
“I’m stating he assumed control at the exact moment the company became real.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens. “And that led you to what?”
“The accident file.”
He stops walking.
I take two more steps before I turn back to him.
His expression has changed, sharper now, less guarded.
“I pulled the public report and the insurance correspondence,” I say, closing the distance again. “There are references to follow-up documentation that doesn’t exist. Mechanical review of the car noted but no signs it was ever completed.”
He watches me, not interrupting.
“There’s a line in the insurance adjustment,” I add. “‘Mechanical irregularity pending review.’ The review never posts.”
The wind cuts between us, sharper here near the water.
“And the payout?” he asks.
“Accelerated once Tom stepped in as acting head.”
“That could be administrative efficiency,” he says, but there’s less conviction behind it now.
“It could.”
He studies me. “But you don’t believe that.”
“No. It isn’t smelling right.”
We reach the railing. I stop, resting my hands lightly against the cold metal.
“You’re connecting dots,” Matteo says, coming to stand beside me.
“I’m following the money.”
“And you think the accident wasn’t an accident.”
I don’t look at him. “I think something doesn’t reconcile. The growth. The timing.” I glance over. “The fact that Marino Holdings looks like a shell until the year our parents died.”
He doesn’t answer.