Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Ezio
The meeting had dragged on for forty minutes.
I sat at the head of the table, listening to them argue over routes for a shipment. The West Coast docks were hot lately. They'd pitched two alternatives—one through Houston, one through Mexico. Each had its own math, its own palms to grease.
Rocco sat to my left, flipping through reports, occasionally cutting in to pull the discussion back on track. Carlo was by the window, quiet, fingers sliding across his tablet, probably handling something else.
I listened. Nodded when I needed to. Said a word here and there. Mostly waited for it to end.
My phone buzzed. I glanced down. Carmen.
"Sir, the young miss finished her ballet lesson today. The new teacher is very good. She's very happy."
I typed back "Got it" and flipped the phone face-down.
New teacher. Last week, when Juliet threw a fit about changing teachers, Carmen spent half the call explaining—the old one was too strict, the young miss refused to go. I told her to switch. Find someone who'd make Juliet want to show up.
Carmen never dropped the ball. If she said good, it was good.
After the meeting, Rocco trailed behind me, rattling off the afternoon's business in clipped sentences. I listened, walked, and gave instructions. Got in the car. Headed back to the Upper East Side.
When the car turned onto that street, I saw her.
Juliet stood on the steps in her pink practice shorts, hair loose, whipping in the evening wind. Carmen stood beside her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
Before the car stopped, she was already running down the steps.
I pushed the door open. She crashed into me, looked up, face bursting with the kind of excitement that couldn't sit still—like a shaken soda about to fizz over.
"Daddy! The new teacher came today!"
"I know." I picked her up, headed inside. "Where's your jacket?"
"Because I had to wait for you!" She didn't care about the question. Both hands grabbed my collar, her whole body leaning into my face. "Daddy, she's so good. She said I have talent, that I learn fast!"
I set her down, crouched to take off my shoes.
Carmen took my coat. Juliet stuck to my side, talking and gesturing, arms stretched wide—probably demonstrating something from class.
Nearly knocked over the vase on the foyer table.
I nudged it further in. Told her to slow down.
She pulled her arms back a fraction but didn't stop talking.
"And she's so gentle," Juliet followed me into the living room, climbed onto the couch, knelt on the cushions. "Way gentler than the last teacher. That one always frowned. The new teacher doesn't frown."
Her voice picked up speed, like she'd been storing up words all day and finally found the outlet. Each sentence tumbled into the next before the first one finished.
I sat in the chair across from her. Carmen brought me water. "What's the teacher's name?"
Juliet froze. Frowned. Thought hard.
"Vivi," she finally said. "Miss Vivi."
Vivi.
The name drifted through my head. Left no mark. Not unusual. Not memorable. Just a ballet teacher who made Juliet happy.
"Daddy," Juliet started again, voice colored with the thrill of a big discovery. "Vivi has blonde hair and green eyes! Just like me!"
My fingers stopped at the rim of the glass.
Blonde hair. Green eyes.
The combination was a thin needle, sliding in from somewhere I hadn't guarded. My fingers paused at the rim for one second.
"Is that right?"
"Yes! Her hair's longer than mine, really long, in a ponytail that swings around." Juliet slid off the couch, stood on the carpet, and gestured at her back. "Down to here."
I lifted the glass, took a sip. Didn't respond.
"She's pretty when she smiles," Juliet continued, completely unaware of my silence. "Her eyes are green, darker than mine, like... like leaves. Daddy, do you think she danced Swan Lake?"
"Maybe."
Juliet looked satisfied. She ran off to find her stuffed rabbit. As she darted through the hallway, the ribbon in her hair traced a pink arc through the air, vanishing around the corner.
The living room went quiet.
I set the glass on the coffee table, leaned back into the couch, and stared at the painting across from me for a long time.
Juliet had painted it when she was two. Carmen had it framed and hung it there.
Crooked lines. Couldn't really tell what it was supposed to be. Juliet said it was "Daddy and Mommy."
She said it was Mommy.
I didn't correct her.
Blonde hair. Green eyes.
I stood, walked into the study, closed the door, and called Carlo.
He picked up after two rings.
"Don."
"What did you find?"
A beat of silence. Carlo had been with me long enough. He knew which thing I was asking about.
"Olivia Adrian," he said. "Opened a flower shop near Provence. Called Fleur de Lune. Moon Flower. Operated it for almost five years." He paused. "Last week, it closed."
I didn't speak.
"Still tracking where she went," Carlo continued. "After she left the town, there's no local record. No airport, train station, rental car—my people are cross-checking, but it'll take time."
The study was quiet.
A car passed outside now and then. The sound faded fast.
The shop closed.
Five years. She'd run that shop for five years, then closed it, then vanished from the town's records without leaving any easy trail. I braced one hand on the desk, stared at the neat row of file folders, said nothing.
"Keep looking," I said. "Any progress, tell me immediately."
"Understood."
I hung up. Sat down in the chair behind the desk. Stayed in the dark for a while. Didn't turn on the light.
Closed.
The word circled through my head. I didn't let it land anywhere specific, because I wasn't ready to admit what it pointed to.
I was just handling something that needed handling.
She was the mother of my child. She'd slipped from my sight for five years in a way I couldn't control.
That was an information gap no family head should tolerate.
So I had Carlo look into it. Nothing to do with anything else.
I picked up my phone. Opened Instagram.
Her account was still there. Same profile picture—that side profile, sunlight warming the blonde hair to gold.
I scrolled down. Found the most recent post—two months ago.
A photo of the shop. The glass storefront filled with flowers in every color.
Sunlight slanting in from the side, that saturated golden light specific to southern France.
Location tagged in that town near Provence. The one I'd already looked into.
The photo showed her hands. Holding a bunch of white daisies. Arranging them in a glass vase. Just hands. No face. But I recognized those hands.
Two months ago, she was still in France.
Carlo said the shop closed last week.
The last Instagram update was two weeks ago. Still in France. The shop closed last week. A one-week gap between the two. What happened in that gap, where she went, I didn't know yet.
But one thing was certain.
Even if she'd left that town, gone anywhere in the world she wanted to go, I wouldn't stop looking. Not ever.
I closed my eyes. Pushed the thought down.
The next day's meeting started at two in the afternoon.
The topic was a new Southeast Asia project. Three months of preliminary research. Today was the final round of discussion. Once we confirmed direction, we could move to execution. I sat at the head of the conference table, opened the folder in front of me, and signaled to begin.
Seven people in the room. Presentations were crisp. Data clear. First thirty minutes went smoothly.
Then I lost focus.
Not because something specific pulled me away. Just a thought drifting in, quietly blocking one tributary of attention. What Juliet said yesterday. Blonde hair, green eyes. The shop closed. Still tracking where she went...
Then something else. Something I'd deliberately not thought about last night.
Vivi.
Juliet called her Vivi.
Olivia.
Similar names.
Was this really just a coincidence?
"Mr. Visconti?"
I snapped back.
A moment of silence in the room. All seven looking at me. Different expressions, but the same cautious uncertainty underneath. The guy presenting stood by the projection screen, frozen on the last slide, remote in hand, unmoving.
"Say it again," I said.
He repeated it. I heard it this time. Gave instructions. The meeting continued.
But the thought was still there. Pushed it away. It drifted back. Pushed it away. Drifted back. Like something that knew exactly where it belonged. Wasn't leaving.
About ten minutes later, Rocco appeared at the door. Called my name. I looked up. His expression was controlled, but his eyes held something I recognized—he'd already called more than once.
I closed the folder. Stood.
"That's it for today." I picked up my coat. "Get your written input to Rocco by Friday."
No one asked why. No one said the meeting wasn't finished. Seven heads nodded in unison. I walked out. Rocco followed, asked quietly if I needed the afternoon schedule arranged.
"No," I said. "I'm going home."
Rocco paused. That pause carried a question he didn't voice. But he didn't ask. Just said yes, sir, and went to notify the driver.
I stood in the hallway, coat draped over my arm, looking at the skyline through the window at the end of the corridor. Beautiful day. Sky so blue it looked deliberate.
She was in France. Last Instagram location was France, two weeks ago. Shop closed last week. But closing didn't mean leaving. Definitely didn't mean coming to New York. The logic held. Confirmed it last night. Confirmed it this morning. No reason to confirm it a third time.
But my coat was already over my arm. The driver had already been called.
I walked toward the elevator. Pulled out my phone. Called Carmen.
"Does Juliet have ballet this afternoon?"
"Yes, sir." Carmen's voice was calm. "Two to three. The teacher already confirmed."
I glanced at the time. 2:23.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped in, watched the floor numbers drop, told myself I was just going home early to see my daughter. That's all.
That teacher named Vivi should already be there by now.