7. Lorenzo #2
I’ve known her since she was a girl in patched clothes, following my father through the cellars with desperate hope in her eyes. He saw something in her worth saving, and I promised myself I would honor that. Believing she did this would mean questioning his judgment as well as mine.
He was wrong about silence. I know that much from the letter. But it is harder to believe he was wrong about a girl he treated like a second child, or that I have been wrong about her since.
“Personal knowledge.” I leave my own name on the list in front of them, hoping that will make the distinction look reasonable.
“I’ve known Livia since childhood. Her family had nothing when she was growing up.
My father helped her find a path out of that.
He gave her work and a place here. She built her whole life around this estate. ”
“Respectfully, Don Lorenzo.” Ferro turns the list so Livia’s name faces me again. “Personal history does not preclude present misconduct. If anything, it can sometimes explain motive.”
“I’m not asking for your opinion on her character.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “I’m telling you to adjust the focus of your investigation.”
They exchange a glance. Mancini makes a note, her pen moving with deliberate precision.
“We’ll document your directive and adjust accordingly.
” Ferro gathers his papers with professional disapproval radiating from every movement.
“But I want to be clear: this decision limits our ability to pursue what may be the most promising line of inquiry. If additional evidence emerges that implicates the cellar steward, we’ll need to revisit this conversation. ”
“Understood.” I stand, signaling that the meeting is over. “You’ll retain your complete documentation regardless of investigative focus.”
“Of course.” Mancini closes her notebook. “We don’t destroy records, Don Lorenzo. We simply note when our recommendations have been overruled and proceed as directed.”
The words land exactly as she intended them to. She wants me to know that this decision is mine, that they object, that whatever happens next sits on my shoulders alone.
They leave with their files and their careful professionalism, and I sink back into my chair with the list still sitting on my desk.
Livia’s name remains on the original page, beside the note about her authority.
My direction hasn’t changed her access. It has changed what the investigators are allowed to do about it.
I should have asked for time to think. Instead I gave an order, and they wrote it down. I dislike knowing that the next time we speak, they will have that instruction in front of them.
I pick up the paper and fold it carefully, tucking it into my jacket pocket where no one else will see it.
I tell myself this is the right decision, but I keep my hand over the folded paper until I hear their car leave.
***
The afternoon light is starting to soften when I finally leave my study. I’ve been staring at the same reports for an hour, absorbing nothing, and the walls have started to feel like they’re pressing inward.
My mother is on the covered terrace when I reach the courtyard, seated at the small iron table with a stack of notes for the housekeeper and a cup of tea that’s probably gone cold. She’s writing something in her precise hand, pausing occasionally to consult a list beside her elbow.
“You look terrible.” She doesn’t glance up from her writing. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“I had coffee.” I stop beside the table, not quite ready to sit down. “I’ve been in meetings.”
“Coffee is not a meal, Lorenzo.” She sets down her pen and looks at me properly, her gaze sharp despite the casual observation. “Neither is hiding in your study pretending to work.”
I pull out the chair across from her and sit because standing feels like an admission of something. The courtyard stretches beyond the terrace, and I can see staff moving through it on various errands. None of them look toward us.
“The investigators came this morning.” I offer it like an explanation, though she hasn’t asked. “There’s progress on understanding what happened to the wine.”
“I assumed there would be investigators.” She picks up her teacup, finds it cold, and sets it back down with a small frown. “What I’m asking is whether you’ve spoken to your wife today.”
The question lands harder than it should. I think about the screenshot open on my phone yesterday, the threatening message Chiara had forwarded. I promised to have it checked. I haven’t told her yet that there is still no answer.
“I’ve been coordinating damage control.” My voice sounds defensive even to my own ears. “The distributors need reassurance, the staff need direction. There hasn’t been time for extended conversations.”
“There’s been time for coffee and hiding.” She straightens the papers in front of her, a precise gesture that somehow conveys disappointment. “Your wife asked one of the kitchen staff about the weekly order this morning. The girl pretended not to hear her and walked away.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “Which staff member?”
“It doesn’t matter which one.” My mother waves a hand, dismissing the question. “I happened to be nearby. I made sure the girl understood that ignoring the lady of the house is not acceptable behavior. But I shouldn’t have had to do that, Lorenzo. You should have made it clear after the launch.”
“I’m handling it.” I hear how little that gives her, but I am not prepared to explain the instructions I gave the investigators. She would ask why I didn’t trust their judgment.
“Are you?” She meets my eyes with the directness that’s always made her impossible to lie to. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve found time to speak to everyone except her.”
I don’t have a response to that. She holds my gaze for a long moment, then turns her attention back to her notes with a small shake of her head.
Movement in the courtyard draws my eye. Chiara has emerged from somewhere inside the house, Rosalia beside her, both of them crossing toward the fountain where the afternoon light catches the spray of water.
My wife carries a notebook in one hand, and she’s gesturing with the other as she speaks to Rosalia about something I can’t hear.
She doesn’t look broken. She looks focused, purposeful, like she’s making plans that don’t require my input or approval.
I watch her stop a porter, point toward the service entrance, ask a question.
The man hesitates, glances around as if checking whether anyone is watching, then answers her with obvious reluctance.
Chiara nods, writes something in her notebook, and moves on without visible reaction to his discomfort.
She’s still fighting. The thought carries an ache I wasn’t expecting. She’s standing in a house that’s turned cold around her, asking questions of people who don’t want to answer, refusing to disappear the way everyone seems to expect her to.
I recognize the notebook. She brought it to my desk yesterday and let me read her observations, trusting me to take them seriously even while she was angry with me. I did take them seriously. I wrote down what she said. Why does that seem so inadequate when I watch her carrying it away?
I want to ask her what she has learned since then. More than that, I want her to turn toward me with the ease she still has with Rosalia. I miss being someone she can laugh with.
“Go talk to her.” My mother sets her notes down, her attention on the empty place beside Chiara. “Right now, while she’s there.”
I push back my chair, and my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The distributor. The regional contact I’ve been trying to reach for two days, the one who needs reassurance about quality control before the rumors spread further than they already have.
I pull out the phone and hesitate with my thumb above the caller’s name.
If I let it ring out, he may not call again before tomorrow. Chiara is still beside the fountain.
“I have to take this.” I’m already answering as I say it, already turning away from my mother’s expression. “It’s about the launch damage.”
The call connects, and I move toward the edge of the terrace where I can speak without being overheard.
The distributor has questions. I have answers that sound like reassurance.
The conversation requires attention, requires the right words in the right order, and I give it what it needs because this is something I know how to do.
Across the courtyard, Chiara closes her notebook and says something to Rosalia. They turn toward the house, toward the door on the far side that will take them back inside without passing the terrace.
Could I ask him to hold while I call her name? The thought comes just as he asks another question.
But the distributor is asking about the reserve stock, and I explain that it will remain unavailable until the checks are complete.
I could interrupt him. I wait instead. Chiara reaches the doorway.
She doesn’t look in my direction. She steps through, Rosalia following, and the courtyard is empty again.
I finish the call with promises I’ll have to keep and excuses that sounded better in my head. When I turn back to the table, my mother is gathering her notes without comment.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
I had a chance to do something that mattered, and I chose a phone call instead. I can tell myself it was necessary, that the estate needs protecting, that five more minutes wouldn’t have changed anything.
I put the phone away and look toward the door she used.
She never looked back to see whether I was coming.
***
The security update comes in late afternoon.
The driver I assigned to Chiara confirmed that the market trip went without further incident after the confrontation she described. They haven’t identified who sent the threatening message. The number and screenshot have been retained, and the driver has instructions to remain available.