24
LUCA BELLANDI
I barely slept in the small hours of that Saturday.
Not because of Cris, I told myself. The problem wasn’t the man in the guest room, the intimacy built over fifteen years, or how easily Gabriela laughed around him. It was the word that had slipped out in the hallway.
Love.
I’d almost asked whether she loved me. I hadn’t, because yes would demand something I didn’t know how to give, and no would hurt more than it should.
At five, I gave up on bed and went to my office. The agenda for the monthly board meeting was in my inbox. Beatrice had added the last item: compliance guidelines for personal relationships between executives and service providers. The message was clear.
I opened the document. The proposal required relationships to be disclosed, executives to recuse themselves from decisions involving intimate partners, and contracts to undergo external review.
In principle, the measures were reasonable—Gabriela had already put many of them in place.
The poison lay in a retroactive clause allowing payments to be voided and providers removed on grounds of a “significant appearance of favoritism,” with no proof required.
Beatrice didn’t have to demonstrate incompetence.
She only had to make it look as though there was favoritism.
I flagged the clause and forwarded the text to the auditor and Gabriela. I asked Paola to gather the assessment and cost records; that Saturday’s meeting began at eleven.
At seven, I stopped in the kitchen. Cris was pouring coffee for Gabriela.
I almost went back to my office, but asked for a cup and sat down.
I listened to stories I’d had no part in.
Later, Gabriela sent me her comments on Beatrice’s proposal.
She didn’t ask me to speak for her: she identified what the clause could affect in her contract.
By nine, the files were ready. The auditor would join the call. I logged into the videoconference at eleven with the documents open. Beatrice appeared on-screen as though the confrontation at the ball had never happened.
“The proposed policy doesn’t name anyone,” she said. “Its purpose is to protect the company against allegations of favoritism.”
“Then it should apply to every board member,” I replied. “Including former fiancées, relatives, and business partners.”
Lorenzo lowered his eyes to hide his reaction. Beatrice remained composed.
“I agree. The point is to ensure that intimate relationships don’t influence decisions.”
“The retroactive provision covers payment for services already delivered. What misconduct would justify that?”
“Gabriela’s retention after the increase in costs.”
The auditor brought up the report’s conclusions. I added the spreadsheet of authorized expenses: the reduction in risk and the offsets had already been examined. Beatrice knew the documents. That morning, she was trying to change the rule they’d be judged by.
“Her appointment was confirmed on the basis of an external assessment,” I replied. “A new criterion doesn’t turn completed work into misconduct.”
A board member cleared his throat.
“Does this confirm that there is a relationship?”
The information was already on record with the responsible team. Denying it now would mean lying to people who’d seen the disclosure.
“Yes. It’s been disclosed, and I take no part in assessing her contract.”
The auditor asked to speak. She confirmed that Gabriela had requested the safeguards before the board had required anything, that I’d withdrawn from contractual decisions, and that all costs were documented.
“The proposed wording allows a penalty without evidence of a failing,” she concluded. “The Palazzo contract already has verification measures in place. The relationship has been disclosed, and the payments correspond to documented services.”
Two board members who’d previously supported Beatrice asked for the clause to be removed. She shuffled her papers without answering.
“The publicity could still damage the group,” she insisted.
“That doesn’t change the records. Can we vote on removing the clause?”
“You’re the president. Your conduct affects the group.”
“That’s why the controls exist. I won’t accept voiding payments for work that’s been delivered.”
Because the clause directly affected Gabriela’s contract, I declared my conflict of interest and abstained.
My objection and the documents went into the minutes.
The others voted to remove it. The general policy passed without the retroactive penalty.
Beatrice gathered her papers before the meeting ended.
Afterward, I found Gabriela and Cris in the hall, looking at photographs on a phone. The old irritation flared, followed by the memory of my promise to trust before condemning.
“Meeting over?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you survive?”
“The board did. Barely.”
Cris put away his phone.
“I need to get back to Lisbon. My car will be here in ten minutes.”
Gabriela hugged him. I made myself watch without turning the gesture into a threat.
“Call when you get there,” she said.
“Always. And eat something before four.”
He looked at me.
“Can you make sure she does?”
“I don’t take on impossible assignments.”
“At least you know.”
We shook hands. This time, neither of us tried to outgrip the other.
“Take care of her,” Cris said.
I held his gaze.
“She’s made it clear she takes care of herself.”
“Good answer.”
He left. Gabriela waited until he’d disappeared down the stairs.
“Thank you for not turning goodbye into a competition,” she said.
“He said I wouldn’t get you to eat lunch on time.”
“Finally, something you agree on.”
She touched my fingers. I took her hand as I told her about the meeting.
“Beatrice’s clause was struck out.”
Gabriela let out a breath.
“And the rest?”
“The policy passed with amendments. The safeguards in your contract remain as they were.”
“Did she ask about us again?”
“Yes.”
“Did you deny it?”
“No.”
She stared at me.
“What did you say?”
“I confirmed it. We’d already disclosed the relationship. There was no reason to pretend otherwise.”
She studied me for a moment.
I touched her face, though two people were passing farther down the hall.
“And I won’t let them use it to erase your work.”
“What about the press? Are you still waiting until the opening?”
The contract had its safeguards. A photograph wouldn’t change them. I knew that; I still feared what people would make of every gesture between us.
“I’d prefer to. But the answer can’t be a lie.”
“Or leave me looking like an intruder every time someone asks.”
“You’re not an intruder.”
She smiled, and it hit me as hard as ever.
“Meet me in the garden tonight,” she said.
“At eight?”
“At eight. Come hungry.”
“I’ll be there.”
She walked away smiling. I watched until she vanished down the hall.
I thought of the test results in my safe.
I hadn’t consulted another specialist in fifteen years.
I could do it now. I put away my phone. First I needed to get through the day.
That evening, I didn’t go straight to the garden.
I went to see Sofia in her private rooms first.
My grandmother sat by a window, studying rose catalogs. She didn’t look up when I came in.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“For what?”
“To come and ask for advice you’ll pretend you don’t want.”
I poured myself a cognac.
“Beatrice is trying to get Gabriela removed from the project.”
“Not because of the project.”
“I know.”
She closed the catalog.
“What are you going to do?”
“Protect her work.”
“That part’s easy. What are you going to do with her heart?”
I drank.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“You’re in love.”
I almost denied it. The word had haunted me all day. Denying it to Sofia wouldn’t make it any less true.
“Yes.”
My grandmother didn’t smile. That surprised me.
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because love doesn’t change what I can offer.”
“Money, protection, a palace, and the worst temper in Lombardy?”
“Gabriela wants children.”
Sofia went still. Very few people knew about the diagnosis. My grandmother had come to the clinic with me after the scandal with Beatrice.
“You still treat those tests as a sentence,” she said.
“There were two tests.”
“Doctors make mistakes.”
“Marinelli was one of the most respected specialists in the country.”
“Lorenzo recommended him,” Sofia reminded me. “I went to one appointment, but afterward you wouldn’t discuss the results.”
I frowned.
“I was recovering from surgery. My brother arranged everything.”
“Perhaps. Get tested again anyway.”
“Fifteen years later? What for?”
“For another doctor’s opinion. You’re talking about leaving Gabriela without even making an appointment.”
I shook my head. Testing again meant reopening the wound. The same result would only confirm the loss. A different one would force me to ask how many years I’d lived under a lie. Fear of both answers kept me still.
“Have you told Gabriela?”
“No.”
“Tell her before you decide it’s over.”
I went to the window. In the garden, Gabriela was setting something on a table. I’d promised to meet her in a few minutes.
“Not yet.”
Sofia pushed the phone toward me.
“Then at least save another specialist’s number.”
I entered the contact she dictated but didn’t call.
I left her rooms and went to meet Gabriela. She’d prepared a simple dinner in the restored pavilion: bread, cheese, wine, and a small tart. When I arrived, she lit a candle.
“To celebrate the fact that no one found another way to reopen my assessment today,” she explained.
“I’d prefer a celebration that didn’t depend on the board.”
“Then celebrate the fact that I brought your favorite tart.”
“That’s better.”
She laughed and kissed me. I put my arms around her waist, wanting to repeat what I’d admitted to Sofia. I love you. The words had never seemed so hard.
She looked at me with trust, unaware that I was hiding the very truth that could determine our future.
“What is it?” she asked.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
She set down the cheese knife.
“I’m listening.”
I opened my mouth. I could start with the tests.
My phone vibrated: Lorenzo was warning me that journalists were asking about Cris and the trip to Lisbon.
I’d already asked for the collection of personal information to stop.
Instead of returning to what I’d been about to say, I showed Gabriela the message.
“It’s about the press?” she asked.
“They’re asking about Cris.” True, but not what I’d begun to tell her.
“I don’t want them using this to dig into his life again,” she said.
I agreed and forwarded the message to Legal.
Then I put away the phone. She waited another moment; when I said nothing more, she put on some music and turned it up.
She sang softly, missing an entrance, and beckoned me to the middle of the pavilion.
“I don’t know how to dance to this.”
“You can chair hostile meetings in four languages. You’ll survive.”
I let her guide me. I stumbled once, stepped on her shoe, and heard her laugh against my chest. For a few minutes, the future seemed simple: mornings at the Palazzo, trips to Brazil, Sofia teasing us, and this pavilion full of music instead of secrets.
“After the opening,” she said, “I want to know what happens to us. No disappearing behind press officers or headlines.”
“I won’t disappear.”
She rested her head on my chest, and we kept dancing, barely moving now. When the music ended, she went to get the tart. I picked up two spoons and tried to remember the tune she’d been singing.