28
LUCA BELLANDI
I put a copy of the house drawing in the same safe as my medical reports.
It lay beside the reports and a piece of tile from Augusto’s old office. Gabriela had given it to me at seventeen, after making a small design from the broken pieces her father kept.
I’d held on to that blue fragment for nine years.
I remembered the pride with which she’d shown her work, looking first for Augusto’s approval.
The woman who now drew houses with me still took that same care with things other people threw away.
I loved her. Nothing so obvious had ever been so hard to admit.
I thought of Lisbon, of her hand resting on Augusto’s desk. Of her offering me the pencil at the ruins. I’d known how to receive those gestures. Faced with the chance to answer in words, I’d retreated.
I loved the woman who argued with me in front of the workers and spread plans over my sheets. Still, I couldn’t say it.
Telling her I loved her would make it harder to keep hiding other things.
I knew what she’d ask about Lisbon, and I was still searching for an answer that would make her accept the purchase.
The bank’s checks had delayed the signing from Friday to that Monday.
Now the deed was signed. Her lawyer had acted under the power of attorney she’d left before the trip.
“The price has been paid and the deed signed,” the lawyer explained on-screen. “The rent-free period for removing the archives is documented too.”
“Extend it if she needs more time.”
“You’ll need a reason if you want to do that without revealing your involvement.”
“Consult her lawyer if it becomes necessary. No further offers for now.”
He took off his glasses and set them on the desk.
“When do you intend to transfer the property to Gabriela?”
“After the opening.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“And if she doesn’t want it?”
I remembered her telling me, in the empty office, that she didn’t want me saving the building for her.
“I know she can refuse.”
“Then she needs to know before we prepare a transfer. I can’t negotiate on her behalf.”
“I want to preserve the office.”
“You’ve already bought the property. What she does about it is still up to her.”
“Draw up the options so I can explain them. Don’t send any proposal.”
Before we ended the call, he tried once more.
“Mr. Bellandi, there will be tax and personal implications. If the transfer is treated as a gift . . .”
“Could we tie it to the transfer of Augusto’s technical archives?”
“Only with an independent valuation and her agreement. We can’t put a fictitious price on the archives.”
“Set out the costs and what would need to be agreed. Nothing will be signed in her name.”
I left the office and found Gabriela in the hall, carrying fabric samples and talking to Cris on the phone.
“They’ve confirmed receipt, Cris. The lawyer signed under the power of attorney, and the money’s come through. The deadline for the archives is what we agreed. . . . Yes, I have a copy.”
She hung up and smiled at me.
“It’s done,” she said. “The sale’s registered. The time to clear out the rest of the archives is guaranteed.”
“Is that good?”
“The extra time is. I’ve spent the morning staring at the payment confirmation. I thought I’d feel more relieved.”
“It’s a lot to bring to an end in one day.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You have that look again.”
“What look?”
“Like a man who knows something.”
I took the samples from her.
“I know many things.”
“Modest.”
I walked her to the studio and set the fabrics on the table.
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
“We have dinner almost every night.”
“Outside the palace.”
“In public?”
I recognized the caution beneath the question. I’d made her wait so long for a simple gesture that even an invitation had to be checked for traps.
“At a restaurant in Bellagio. I’ll book a table on the terrace.”
Her smile made an answer unnecessary. That evening, we sat on a terrace overlooking the lake. Other tables were occupied, and security stayed outside. When the owner greeted me and looked at Gabriela, I introduced her by name.
“Gabriela is with me.”
Those words changed her expression. A couple at a nearby table recognized me and asked for a photograph. I politely declined without taking my hand from Gabriela’s back. I pulled out her chair.
“You’re learning,” she murmured as we sat.
“I have a strict teacher.”
“And a slow learning curve.”
The owner brought the menu. She opened it, still smiling. No one had demanded an explanation, and I hadn’t needed to make a speech. Dinner could go on.
The happiness on her face made me ashamed of having denied her this for so long. We talked about travel, childhood, and what we’d do after the opening. Gabriela wanted to spend a few weeks in Brazil. I had commitments in New York and London.
“You could come to S?o Paulo with me,” she suggested.
“As a tourist?”
“As a man who needs to learn there’s a world beyond five-star hotels.”
“I have hotels in S?o Paulo.”
“Exactly the problem.”
I imagined getting to know her places, walking streets where no one treated me as the owner, sleeping in a home I didn’t control. The thought should have been uncomfortable. It wasn’t.
“I’ll come.”
“Are you sure? S?o Paulo may not bow to your schedule.”
“It’ll be educational.”
“We’ll stay at my mother’s apartment while she’s away. Not at a Bellandi hotel.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Two. One full of things I keep there.”
“Agreed.”
“There are no staff.”
“I can learn to make coffee.”
“After the eggs, that sounds like a threat.”
We laughed. A small future took shape before me without effort: waking in her space, getting to know streets that held versions of Gabriela from before I’d come into her life, discovering who she was away from the Palazzo.
The love was so obvious that withholding the words began to feel like superstition.
“Gabriela, I . . .”
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I silenced it without taking it out.
“What?” she asked.
She waited, her fingers around her glass. I lost my nerve.
“I want you to choose the dates.”
She held my gaze. She’d noticed the unfinished sentence but didn’t force me to complete it.
“One day you’ll have to finish what you start saying.”
“I know.”
I refilled her glass. She didn’t press, but I kept thinking about what I could have said when she looked at me that way. She reached across the table. I took her hand in full view of the staff and didn’t let go when other people came onto the terrace.
On the way back, she fell asleep in the car with her head on my shoulder. I stayed still so I wouldn’t wake her and messaged the lawyer with my free hand.
Assess the condition of the Lisbon office. I want to know what the property needs; don’t authorize any work. I read the message before sending it. The gesture I’d imagined would be perfect already required me to conceal a deed and prepare excuses. I sent it anyway.
The next morning, Lorenzo entered my office without knocking and set a folder on the desk.
“I’ve seen the final figures for the Lisbon purchase.”
I closed my laptop.
“Who gave you access?”
“The Luxembourg company used a bank connected to the group. Your lawyer is discreet, not invisible.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You paid above the property’s appraised value.”
“With personal funds.”
“You intend to give it to Gabriela.”
I didn’t answer. The silence was confirmation enough. He opened the folder and ran a finger over the documents.
“The board knows about the relationship. If they find out about the purchase, they’ll ask why you left it out of the disclosure.”
“The project didn’t pay for it. My lawyer is putting the documents together.”
“You’re changing your plans for her.”
“My plans are mine.”
He watched me as though he’d finally found the crack he’d been searching for.
“Are you in love?”
“Get out of my office.”
He didn’t move.
“If you marry Gabriela, everything changes.”
“For whom?”
“The family. The group. The succession.”
For years, Lorenzo had counted on taking control after me. The family agreements gave priority to my descendants; without any, my brother was next in line. I’d begun talking about a house with Gabriela, and he’d done the arithmetic before I had.
“There won’t be any descendants,” I said.
“Are you certain?”
“You know about the tests.”
“I know the reports. I also know people in love reconsider adoption, marriage, and the way their assets are held.”
“Is this about money?”
He gave a short laugh, as though I’d insulted him.
“It’s about spending your life making sure the company stays in the family, then discovering you might hand influence to a woman we’ve known for a few months.”
“I’ve known Gabriela since she was a child.”
“You knew Augusto’s daughter. The woman sleeping in your room is someone else.”
“She hasn’t stopped being his daughter because she’s with me. And I don’t need you to explain who she is.”
I stood.
“Don’t investigate her again.”
“I’m protecting the group.”
“That phrase has justified enough cruelty in this family.”
He picked up the folder.
“Then say you don’t intend to marry her.”
I hadn’t planned a wedding. Gabriela hadn’t asked me to. But the house drawing was in the safe, and a trip to Brazil was beginning to find its place in my schedule.
“My relationship is none of your business.”
“That’s an answer in itself.”
He left. Through the open door, I saw Beatrice waiting by the meeting room. Lorenzo went to her. For a moment, I considered calling him back; I wanted to know how far the Lisbon documents had circulated. My phone vibrated.
The lawyer confirmed that Lorenzo’s access to the transaction details came through the bank used for the purchase. As the group’s finance director, he was listed among those responsible for reviewing that subsidiary’s transactions.
The subsidiary’s connection to the group had given Lorenzo access I’d chosen to ignore. I couldn’t erase the transaction records. I could stop him treating that access as permission to dig through Gabriela’s life. I called the lawyer back.
“Separate out what Finance needs to receive. Any request beyond the transaction comes to me.”
“Even from Lorenzo?”
I looked at the empty hall.
“Especially from Lorenzo.”
After the call, I opened the safe. The house drawing still lay between the tile fragment and the reports that defined the future I believed in. I touched the line of the fig tree Gabriela had drawn. I loved that woman. I still hadn’t told her.
Before leaving, I took out the drawing to look at it once more. I could picture her in that house. Telling her seemed harder than building every wall.