7
GAbrIELA DUARTE
I woke knowing I’d almost kissed Luca Bellandi, with the added humiliation of knowing he’d almost let me.
Almost was worse. A kiss could have been written off as impulse, a mistake, temporary insanity brought on by the storm.
But he’d stopped before we touched, leaving me with the truth: he’d wanted me for a few seconds.
Then he’d remembered who I was. Augusto’s daughter.
The little girl he’d known. An unwanted responsibility with too much debt and too little experience.
At seventeen, I’d believed growing up would be something he could see.
That age would peel some film from my face and force Luca to look at me.
At the party where I’d worn the blue dress, I’d come down the stairs much too slowly, aware of his eyes on me.
He’d told me I looked lovely, kissed my forehead, and asked about my exams.
I’d cried in the bathroom the way only a teenager humiliated by her own secret fantasies could cry. Then I’d promised myself I would never again wait for a man who thought of me as family to choose me.
Nearly nine years, a master’s degree, a funeral, and a business later, that film still seemed to be there.
My pants and shirt from the day before had dried in the laundry overnight. I put them on, pinned up my hair, and left the room at six. The road was still blocked. Paola said a second barrier had given way in the night. We’d be at the palazzo for at least another day.
Perfect.
Twenty-four hours sharing corridors with a man who’d stroked my face and pulled back as though he’d touched a flame. In the project room, Luca was already at the head of the table. My mood got worse.
He didn’t look as though he’d been up all night. Dark blue suit, freshly shaved, the same unreadable expression. Only the shadows under his eyes suggested he’d slept no better than I had.
“Good morning,” he said.
I turned on the computer I’d left charging in the corridor before bed.
“Paola, do we have the assessment for the east wing?”
Her eyes flicked between us.
“It came in ten minutes ago.”
“Good morning, Gabriela,” Luca repeated.
I looked up.
“Mr. Bellandi.”
His jaw tightened. A small victory.
The meeting moved through updates and budget changes. I reported on the west wing’s stabilization. Luca asked technical questions and approved the work sequence.
Carlo brought the new measurements. The crack had spread.
A technician from the surveying company had copied the old figures into the report.
Carlo took responsibility for failing to check them.
I asked for every area to be measured again.
Luca authorized a second team to verify the work and ordered that all versions of the reports be kept.
As everyone got up to leave, he spoke.
“I need a word before the inspection.”
I went on fastening my folder.
“Marco’s waiting for me.”
“Five minutes.”
“I wasted enough time last night.”
Paola slipped out and shut the door. Luca waited until we were alone.
“About last night—”
“Nothing happened.”
“I shouldn’t have touched you.”
I pressed the folder’s clasp shut.
“You said that already.”
He stayed behind the table. I waited for the explanation he hadn’t given me in the early hours.
“Has my job changed? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No.”
“Then why did I need to hear that again?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the closed door.
“Because Augusto trusted me.”
It felt like a slap.
“And I trusted you last night. You could have said no without making me feel like a mistake.”
Luca braced his hands on the table.
“Your contract goes through me. If we start something, that doesn’t change.”
“Then put someone else in charge of my contract.”
He looked at the folder. I waited.
“I’m not starting anything with you.”
I’d expected it. It hurt anyway. I shoved my computer into the bag, catching the cord in the clasp. Had to open it again.
“Fine. Then keep my meetings and my deadlines out of it.”
I took my folder and left.
The old library occupied two floors at the southern end of the palazzo. It had been closed after a leak damaged part of the ceiling. The temporary repairs were done, but the interior finishes still needed restoring before guests could use it. I was there to assess the wood paneling.
Carlo had been called to the west wing, but he’d approved an inspection of the lower panels. Marco from the carpentry crew would come with me. I checked which area had been cleared before I went in. The room took my breath away.
Tall bookshelves covered the walls, connected by a narrow gallery. Sheets draped old furniture. Abandoned books leaned against each other, their spines stained with damp. A nearly vanished painting on the ceiling showed a woman surrounded by roses.
Marco opened the shutters for more light, and I began documenting the panels. Some we could restore in place; others needed treatment. By the north wall, I noticed a change in the wood, as though someone had built a bookcase over an earlier opening.
“Paola said you wanted the old drawings,” Luca said from the doorway.
I turned. He was carrying a folder with a worn cover.
“I asked the archive team.”
“They were in my office.” He put the folder on a table. “Copies of the prewar survey.”
I ran my fingers along the yellowed edges, comparing the first sheet with the room.
“Can I keep them until I’m done?”
“Yes.”
I could have thanked him and let him leave. Instead, I pointed to the wall.
“There’s an opening here that isn’t on the current plan.”
He came over to look.
Marco went for a short ladder. I opened the old survey beside the photographs of the panel.
“What did you find?”
“Possibly a sealed door.”
“There’s no passage through this wall.”
“Not according to the current plan. But the thickness suggests otherwise.”
I tapped three spots. The last sounded hollow.
“Look at the molding. It’s newer than the shelves on either side.”
Luca leaned over the plan in my hand. His shoulder brushed mine.
“It could just be a niche.”
“Or a door to a smaller room.”
“There’s a service staircase on the other side.”
“On the nineteenth-century plans, yes. But the palazzo was altered during the war.”
I turned the sheet, and my fingers touched his. He looked up. For a moment, I waited for him to say something about our conversation in the project room.
“The molding,” I reminded him, pointing to the wall.
He moved his hand away. I crouched to examine the bottom of the panel. Cold air came through a crack.
“There’s a space behind here. We need to see how they closed it up.”
Marco returned with the ladder. He examined the fastenings and called Carlo on the radio. The engineer would check the wall before we took the paneling off.
Luca glanced at his watch.
“It could take a while,” I said.
“I’ll wait.”
While we waited, Marco and I checked the drawings. Luca stayed at the table, holding the sheets I asked for. Our hands met from time to time. Eventually, I stopped pulling mine away so quickly.
Carlo arrived, examined the wall, and gave permission to remove the molding covering the opening. Marco released the fastenings and laid the wood on a blanket. Behind it was a narrow door with a darkened metal handle.
“They closed this up later,” I said, photographing the brick joints.
Luca stepped closer.
“I don’t remember ever seeing it open.”
Marco removed the piece blocking the latch. The door gave a few centimeters. A smell of cold earth drifted out.
I picked up the flashlight. Narrow steps descended into the wall behind the door.
Luca leaned in beside me. The beam reached a bend, but not the bottom.
“Where does it lead?” he asked. For the first time that morning, I didn’t have an answer either.