16. Valentin
— ? —
Valentin
The phone drags me out of sleep at three in the morning.
For a moment I don’t know where I am. The bed is too wide, the sheets too cold on the side where no one has slept in weeks.
Then the room comes into focus: the villa, the master bedroom, the chair by the window where Solenne used to read while I worked too late.
I got back yesterday afternoon. The suitcase I brought from Los Angeles is still open beside the wardrobe.
I fumble for the phone. My lawyer in Palermo.
“This couldn’t wait until morning?”
“No.” His voice is tight. “Check your email. There’s a headline you need to see before anyone else calls you about it.”
I sit up and open my inbox. The subject line is just a link.
The article loads slowly on the villa’s patchy connection. The headline fills the screen.
How an Unstable Hollywood Starlet Attacked Her Mother-in-Law’s Guest and Abandoned Her Family
Below it, a photograph of Solenne from years ago, taken at some premiere before we met. They’ve chosen one where the lighting makes her look harsh, her smile forced. Next to it, a softer image of Ginevra at a charity event, all wounded elegance.
I read the first paragraph. Then the second. Then I stop reading because my hands are shaking too badly to hold the phone steady.
Sources close to the family describe a pattern of volatile behavior… unprovoked attack on a family friend… fled to America with the couple’s young daughter… insiders question whether the marriage was ever stable…
Sources close to the family.
I recognize the phrases my mother uses, the careful way she frames cruelty as concern. That doesn’t prove who spoke to the reporter. It does make it difficult to read the quotes in any voice but hers.
“Valentin?” My lawyer’s voice, tinny through the speaker. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“The outlet is mid-tier, but it’s already being picked up. By morning it will be everywhere.”
“I understand.”
“What do you want to do?”
I think about the footage sitting in the security archive.
The corridor camera outside the sitting room, the timestamp from late March.
I asked the firm to preserve it when I flew out Tuesday, after what happened in the parking structure.
After her security guard told me the messages had begun naming her workplace.
I didn’t know then that it would be needed this fast.
“I’ll call you back,” I say, and hang up before he can respond.
The sea is invisible beyond the window. I can hear it through the open shutters, the same sound that used to put Summer to sleep.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let the fury settle into something colder. Something I can use.
Then I start making calls.
The security firm answers on the second ring. The night operator asks me to confirm which recording I need.
“Don Valentin. We received your preservation request Tuesday. Is there a problem?”
“I need the east-wing corridor footage from late March authenticated and prepared for release. The incident outside the sitting room.”
“We can have the original recording checked this morning.”
“Please have it ready by noon. Nothing leaves the archive until I call you back.”
I hang up and find the next number. Elena Riva covered my father’s death last September with integrity. She wrote about his work, not speculation about his health or his marriage. She didn’t sensationalize. She told the truth when it would have been easier to print rumors.
She answers on the fourth ring, her voice rough with sleep.
“Signor Caruso. It’s three in the morning.”
“I know. I apologize. Have you seen the headline about my wife?”
A pause. Rustling, probably reaching for her own phone. Then a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m seeing it now.”
“It’s false. All of it. I have security footage that shows what actually happened, and I have a witness who was there. I want to give you both, exclusively, before this version spreads any further. But I need to speak to my wife first, get her consent before anything goes public.”
“Why me?”
“Because you told the truth about my father when it would have been easier not to. I need someone who will do the same for Solenne.”
Another pause. When she speaks again, her voice is more alert.
“Call me back when you’ve spoken to her. I’ll be awake.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and stare at the phone. One more call to make. The one that matters most.
It’s six in the evening in Los Angeles. Wednesday evening. Solenne might be finishing dinner with Summer, or starting bedtime, or one of the ordinary things we once did in the same house.
I call anyway.
It rings four times, then goes to voicemail. Her voice, calm and professional, asking me to leave a message.
“Solenne. I just saw the article. It repeats the story my mother told me about Ginevra.” I take a breath.
“I have the security footage from March. It shows what actually happened. I want to release it, along with Delfina’s account, but I’m not doing anything without talking to you first. This is your story.
You should have a say in how it gets told.
Call me back when you can. Whatever time it is. ”
I end the call and set the phone on the nightstand.
The bedroom is dark. Through the window, nothing but black sky and the faint lights of the town below. I should try to sleep. I won’t be able to.
Instead I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
The phone rings just after four. Los Angeles showing on the screen.
I answer immediately. “You got my message.”
“I got it.” Her voice is careful, guarded. “Summer’s getting ready for bed. I have a few minutes.”
“Thank you for calling back.”
“What exactly does the footage show?”
I close my eyes and picture the recording I watched the day after she left, when Delfina told me the truth and I finally listened.
“The corridor camera outside the sitting room. Black and white, no audio. You can see the open doorway. Ginevra shoves Delfina with both hands, hard. Delfina hits the doorframe and the side table. You step between them, and when Ginevra reaches past you, you push her away. She falls out of frame.”
“And then?”
“My mother appears in the corridor. Two staff behind her, arriving after she does. They enter the room and the angle shows nothing more.”
“So it doesn’t show your mother witnessing the first shove.”
“No. Just that she arrived after. But Delfina can speak to what happened next. How my mother threatened her job, Teresa’s job, anyone who contradicted the story.” I pause. “I haven’t asked Delfina for a formal written statement yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Why?”
“Because this is your life being picked apart in headlines. You should decide how much of it becomes public.”
The silence stretches. I hear her breathing, hear the quiet sounds of Odette’s house in the background.
“What about Summer?” she asks finally.
“She stays out of it completely. No mention of her, no footage that includes her, nothing about our daughter in any statement I make.”
“And the video from Rome? When she was talking to Odette?”
She means the recording Odette sent me, the one where Summer repeated things she’d overheard. Nonna said Mama isn’t a real Caruso. The pretty lady said she’s going to be my new mamma.
“That stays private. Forever. It’s not evidence of anything except that our daughter heard things no child should hear. I won’t use her to prove a point.”
“Okay.” Her voice softens slightly. “What else would be in the release?”
“The footage with the timestamp. Delfina’s account, in her own words, of what happened before and after. My statement on camera, correcting the lies and explaining why the silence lasted this long.”
“Which is what?”
I take a breath. “I thought private corrections were enough. I removed my mother from the household, banned Ginevra, told everyone in my immediate circle what actually happened. I gave a statement to the town paper correcting the fiesta photographs. I thought that would be sufficient.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No. I kept the full truth inside the family because I was still protecting our name. And while I did that, you absorbed the public version alone.” I pause.
“I should have asked you, weeks ago, how much you wanted corrected and how. Instead I made decisions about your story without including you in them.”
Another silence. Then: “You can release it. The footage, Delfina’s statement, whatever you need to say. Just keep Summer out of it.”
“I will.”
“And Valentin?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t apologize to the press for me. Don’t make it sound like I need defending because I’m fragile. Delfina was hurt, and Ginevra was reaching for her again. I pushed her away. I’d do it again.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m going to tell them why you left, and what I refused to hear before you did.”
“The house. What happened there. Not what we said on Monday.”
“Not Monday. That stays between us.”
Her side of the call goes quiet. I turn my wedding ring with my thumb, then stop.
“Send me what you plan to say,” she says. “I don’t want another surprise.”
“I will.”
“Okay.” A pause. “I have to go. Summer’s calling for water.”
“Of course. Thank you for calling back.”
“Keep me posted.”
She hangs up. I set the phone down and look at the time. Just past four in the morning, still hours before dawn.
It’s after seven in Los Angeles. I promised Summer a call before bed, and I can picture her waiting with Bunny, listening for her mother’s footsteps.
I type a message: Can I call Summer quickly? Just to say goodnight.
The response comes a minute later: She’s still awake. Calling you.
The phone rings. I answer, and my daughter’s voice fills the room.
“Daddy!”
Something loosens in my chest. “Hi, piccola. Have you got Bunny ready for bed?”
“She’s tired. I’m not tired.”
“That happens sometimes. Did you have a good day?”
“Odette ordered pizza. We ate it from the box. On the couch.”
“If Odette made them, it must be allowed.”
“That’s what Mama said.” A pause. “Are you still coming Saturday? To the market?”
“I’m still coming. I’ll be there Saturday morning.”