Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It may never happen again.”
“Probably not.”
She smiles at him.
Then her gaze shifts to me.
Something changes in her face.
She knows we’ve been discussing her.
Not the subject.
Enough.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
“The contractor sent estimates for the Rossi building.”
“Already?”
“I told him I wanted them quickly.”
“Reasonable.”
“He thinks the windows need to be replaced.”
“They do.”
“You haven’t seen them.”
“I’ve seen the exterior.”
She frowns.
“Were you watching us?”
“No. I reviewed the property assessment.”
Her suspicion eases.
Slowly.
“I want to turn the upper floor into a resource center.”
Gio grins.
“I told you it was a good idea.”
“You said it needed food.”
“All good ideas need food.”
Lucia looks at me.
“What do you think?”
The request shouldn’t feel significant.
It does.
“I think it’s your building.”
“That isn’t an opinion.”
“You want my opinion?”
“Yes.”
I set down my glass and pull the estimates closer, though I don’t look at them yet.
“A resource center connected to a restored Rossi business gives the trust an active purpose. It also rebuilds goodwill in the neighborhood.”
Her expression closes slightly.
Too clinical.
I try again.
“It sounds like something your mother would be proud of.”
Lucia goes still.
“You barely knew her.”
“We’ve spent months learning about her,” Gio says. “That counts.”
She looks down at the estimates.
“Enzo said she used to help families with rent when the building was doing well.”
“Then you’re continuing something she started,” I say.
Her fingers tighten around the papers.
“I want to do it.”
“Then do it.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“I do.”
The words come too quickly.
Lucia’s gaze sharpens.
I correct myself.
“I can explain the process. You decide how much help you want.”
She studies me.
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Nine?”
“I’ll be here.”
Gio raises his glass.
“To Rossi Imports.”
Lucia smiles.
“It needs a new name.”
“Lucy’s House,” he suggests.
“No.”
“The House of Lucy.”
“Worse.”
“Lucia’s Palace.”
“I’m leaving.”
She turns toward the hall.
“Lucia,” I say.
She stops.
“We found another photograph.”
Her attention returns immediately.
“Of Matteo?”
“Yes.”
I take the Moretti file from the corner of my desk. The folder is thinner than it should be after six months of work.
“The image is clearer. He’s wearing the same ring.”
Lucia crosses the room.
Gio joins her beside the desk.
I place the photograph beneath the lamp.
Matteo Moretti stands outside the Crown Fish restaurant. The date stamped on the back is eight months before Lucia’s birth.
Maria stands beside him.
This time, they are both facing the camera.
Matteo’s arm is around her waist.
Maria’s hand rests against his chest.
Neither looks frightened.
They look happy.
Lucia touches the edge of the photograph with one fingertip.
“Where did you find it?”
“Grace located the photographer’s archive. His daughter kept the negatives.”
“Are there more?”
“Six.”
I lay them out in chronological order.
Maria laughing near the restaurant entrance.
Matteo kissing her temple.
The two of them seated at an outdoor table, their hands intertwined.
In the final image, Maria looks directly at Matteo.
I have seen that expression before.
On Lucia’s face when she looks at Gio.
I force myself not to turn toward them.
“She loved him,” Lucia whispers.
“Yes.”
“And he loved her.”
“It appears so.”
Gio studies one of the photographs.
“Does this prove he’s her father?”
“No.”
“What would?”
“DNA.”
Lucia looks at me.
“How do we get that without telling him?”
“We don’t.”
“Could we compare mine with another relative?”
“Possibly. Moretti has a sister living in New York and several nephews.”
“I’m not stealing someone’s DNA.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Yes.”
Gio laughs beneath his breath.
Lucia gives me a look.
“We contact him directly.”
The decision hangs in the room.
“Are you certain?” I ask.
“No.”
She looks at the photographs.
“But I’m tired of learning about my life through other people’s files.”
“How do you want to approach him?”
“I’ll write a letter.”
“Not an email?”
“I don’t want it forwarded through assistants.”
“Reasonable.”
“I’ll write it myself.”
“Of course.”
“No one edits it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Gio coughs.
Lucia looks at him.
“He absolutely would.”
“I might suggest clarity.”
“You’d turn it into a business proposal,” she says.
“I would not.”
Gio picks up an imaginary page.
“Dear Mr. Moretti, enclosed please find one possible daughter—”
Lucia elbows him.
He laughs.
I find myself smiling.
She notices.
For a moment, the three of us stand together over photographs of the people who created her.
No tension.
No rivalry.
No locked doors.
Then Lucia’s hand brushes Gio’s.
His fingers close around hers.
The jealousy returns.
Not because I want him to let go.
Because I want her to reach for me too.
Lucia gathers the photographs.
“I’ll write it tonight.”
“When you’re finished, I can make sure it reaches Moretti directly.”
She nods.
“Thank you.”
She and Gio leave together.
At the door, she looks back.
“Nine tomorrow.”
“I’ll be ready.”
She disappears into the hallway.
Gio remains behind for half a second.
He touches two fingers to his mouth, then points toward Lucia.
An unnecessary confirmation.
I throw a pen at him.
He ducks and follows her out, laughing.
I sit behind my desk.
My brother kissed the woman I love.
She wanted him to.
I am jealous because I want her too.
Not instead of him.
Not at his expense.
I want to know what it feels like when Lucia reaches for me without fear, anger, or necessity forcing her hand.
Until then, I’ll wait.
Love is not proven by taking every opportunity offered.
Sometimes it is proven by leaving the door open and trusting someone to walk through it.