Chapter 2
The front doors opened before I reached them.
Carlo, one of the older members of my household staff, stood on the other side. He had worked for my father before he worked for me, and very little ever disturbed the careful neutrality of his face.
Yet his eyes moved from me to the little girl in my arms, then to Pino walking close enough that his shoulder almost brushed my leg.
His eyebrows rose.
“Signor Duca?”
“Where is Renata?”
Carlo hesitated.
“In the staff office.”
“And the child’s mother?”
His gaze softened when he looked at the girl.
“Elena Moretti. She is there as well.”
The child stirred against my shoulder.
“Mommy?”
Her voice was so small that something tightened beneath my ribs.
I lowered my voice.
“You’re going to see her.”
She studied my face as though she were deciding whether adults kept promises.
Then she nodded.
“All right.”
Pino stayed beside us as we crossed the entrance hall.
The house was unusually quiet.
That told me enough.
News moved quickly among staff, especially unpleasant news. By now everyone probably knew that a jeweled clock had supposedly disappeared from my private study and had been discovered in Elena Moretti’s locker.
People would be wondering whether she would be dismissed.
Some would already have decided she was guilty.
That bothered me more than I expected.
Perhaps because the child in my arms had already made the consequences of careless judgment painfully clear.
At the end of the corridor, Carlo reached for the staff-office door.
I stopped him.
“Before we go inside, tell me exactly what happened.”
He lowered his voice.
“At eleven twenty, Renata reported the small ormolu clock missing from the blue sitting room adjoining your study.”
“Not my study?”
Carlo blinked.
“No, sir.”
Interesting.
The little girl had said Renata accused her mother of entering my private rooms.
Already the story had changed.
“Continue.”
“Renata said she had seen Elena leaving that corridor this morning. She asked Mrs. Bellini to inspect the staff lockers. The clock was found wrapped in a linen cloth inside Elena’s.”
“Who opened the locker?”
“Mrs. Bellini.”
“Who was present?”
“Mrs. Bellini, Renata, Elena, and Tomas from security.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“And where is Mrs. Bellini?”
“In your library.”
I glanced toward the office door.
“Good. Nobody leaves the house until I understand what happened.”
Carlo nodded.
I felt the child stiffen.
Immediately I realized how those words sounded to her.
I looked down.
“That means everyone stays so we can ask questions,” I explained. “Nobody is taking your mother anywhere.”
She seemed to consider this carefully.
“Not even Renata?”
“Not even Renata.”
That appeared to satisfy her.
Then she whispered, “Pino stays too?”
I nearly smiled.
“Especially Pino.”
His ears twitched at his name.
Carlo looked as though he had just witnessed the moon announce its intention to become the sun.
I opened the office door.
Three people turned.
Renata stood nearest the desk.
She was in her early fifties, immaculately dressed in the gray uniform worn by senior housekeeping staff, her dark hair twisted into a severe knot.
Beside the window stood Tomas, one of my security men.
And in the wooden chair near the wall sat a woman I had seen many times without ever really noticing.
Elena Moretti.
She was perhaps thirty.
Maybe thirty-two.
Dark hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, and her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Her face was pale, but she was not crying.
When she saw the child in my arms, however, her composure vanished.
“Sofia.”
The little girl almost climbed out of my arms.
“Mommy!”
I set her down.
Elena dropped to her knees just before Sofia reached her.
She gathered her daughter close.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
“I looked for you,” Elena whispered into Sofia’s hair. “Where did you go?”
Sofia pointed at me.
“I found the coffee man.”
Silence.
Tomas coughed.
Carlo looked at the ceiling.
Even Elena stared at her daughter.
“The… coffee man?”
Sofia nodded earnestly.
“He smells like coffee.”
I cleared my throat.
“It appears I’ve been renamed.”
For the briefest moment, Elena smiled.
Then she remembered where she was.
The smile disappeared.
She stood, keeping one hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“Signor Duca, I can explain.”
“So can Renata.”
Across the room, Renata straightened.
“I already explained everything, sir.”
“Yes. I’m going to ask you to explain it again.”
A flicker crossed her face.
Not fear.
Calculation.
That interested me.
I moved behind the desk but did not sit.
Pino settled near Sofia.
She rested one hand on his broad head, apparently unaware that half the household considered him a creature best admired from a respectful distance.
“Renata,” I said, “where was the clock taken from?”
“The cabinet outside your study.”
“Which cabinet?”
She paused.
“The walnut cabinet.”
“There isn’t a walnut cabinet outside my study.”
Another pause.
“The blue sitting room, sir. I meant the cabinet in the blue sitting room.”
“You told Sofia’s mother she had entered my private rooms.”
Renata looked sharply at the child.
Sofia shifted closer to Elena.
I kept my voice even.
“Look at me, Renata.”
She did.
“Did you say that?”
“I might have said the private corridor.”
“That is not what I asked.”
A silence.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Elena was there.”
I turned to Elena.
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
Renata’s expression almost brightened.
Elena continued.
“Mrs. Bellini asked me to take fresh towels to the guest rooms. The service stairs near the west hall were being polished, so I used the corridor beside the blue sitting room.”
“Did you enter the sitting room?”
“No.”
“Did you see the clock?”
Elena hesitated.
“Yes.”
Renata folded her arms.
“There.”
I ignored her.
“When?”
“This morning. Around nine.”
“What were you doing?”
“I dropped one of the towels near the doorway. When I bent down, I saw the clock through the open door.”
“Was anyone inside?”
Elena looked toward Renata.
“Yes.”
Renata’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“Who?” I asked.
“Renata.”
Everyone became still.
Renata gave a sharp laugh.
“Of course I was there. I supervise those rooms.”
Elena looked at me rather than at her.
“She wasn’t cleaning.”
“What was she doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
Elena swallowed.
“She was standing beside the cabinet with the clock in her hands.”
Renata shook her head.
“That proves nothing.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
Her confidence returned.
That was useful.
People revealed more when they believed they were winning.
I turned to Tomas.
“Did you inspect the corridor cameras?”
“There are no cameras inside the private residential hall, sir.”
“I know. What about the service entrances?”
His expression changed.
“I haven’t checked those yet.”
“Why not?”
“Renata said the item had already been found.”
There it was.
A perfectly ordinary mistake.
And exactly the kind of mistake a confident liar depended on.
“Check them.”
Tomas nodded and left.
I looked at Elena.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Eleven months.”
“And before that?”
“At the San Michele Hotel.”
“Why did you leave?”
“My daughter started preschool closer to this neighborhood. Your house offered steadier hours.”
Sofia was now gently lifting Pino’s ear and whispering something into it.
Pino tolerated the indignity with astonishing patience.
“Has there ever been a complaint against you?”
“No.”
Renata interrupted.
“People become careless when they need money.”
Elena’s face flushed.
I looked at Renata.
“That is an accusation. Do you have evidence?”
“The clock was in her locker.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“She has financial difficulties.”
Elena looked down.
That bothered me.
Not because she might have financial trouble. Half the world did.
Because Renata apparently knew.
“How do you know about her finances?”
Renata hesitated.
“Staff talk.”
“Does Elena discuss her finances with staff?”
Elena shook her head.
“No.”
I looked at Renata again.
“Then who told you?”
Before she could answer, the door opened.
Mrs. Bellini entered.
At sixty-one, Adelaide Bellini had the remarkable ability to make everyone from gardeners to diplomats feel slightly underdressed.
She stopped when she saw Sofia sitting beside Pino.
Her eyes widened.
“Well,” she murmured. “That is new.”
“Mrs. Bellini,” I said, “you opened Elena’s locker?”
“Yes.”
“Was it locked?”
“No.”
Elena turned.
“Yes, it was.”
Mrs. Bellini frowned.
“It was open when I arrived.”
Elena stared at her.
“I locked it after lunch.”
Renata spoke immediately.
“Then perhaps she forgot.”
“I didn’t.”
“Elena—”
“Enough.”
The room went quiet.
I addressed Mrs. Bellini.
“Who told you the locker was open?”
She thought.
“Renata.”
Now Renata looked irritated.
Not frightened.
Irritated.
That was more revealing.
I moved around the desk.
“Where are the locker keys kept?”
“Each employee has one,” Mrs. Bellini said. “A master set is in my office.”
“Who has access?”
“My assistant. Senior housekeeping supervisors. Carlo, when necessary.”
That included Renata.
Elena closed her eyes.
It was the first time I saw genuine discouragement in her expression.
She looked like someone watching a door close despite knowing she had done nothing wrong.
Sofia tugged on her hand.
“Mommy?”
Elena immediately looked down.
“I’m here.”
“You said we were making spaghetti tonight.”
A tremulous smile appeared.
“We are.”
“With the little cheese?”
“With too much cheese.”
Sofia considered that.
“Good.”
Something about that small exchange settled the matter for me in a way the missing clock had not.
Whatever happened next, the child was not going to spend the afternoon wondering whether her home was disappearing.
I looked at Elena.
“You and Sofia can wait in the morning room.”
Her face tightened.
“Am I being dismissed?”
“No.”
“Sir, I need you to know—”
“I know you haven’t been heard properly yet.”
She stopped.
“Go have something to eat with your daughter. Carlo will bring it.”
Elena stared at me as if she wasn’t sure she had understood.
“And Sofia stays with me?”
“That would seem the natural arrangement.”
The relief in her face was quiet but unmistakable.
“Thank you.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t thank me for postponing judgment until I have facts. That should have happened from the beginning.”
Mrs. Bellini looked uncomfortable.
As she should.
Not guilty.
But uncomfortable.
There was a difference.
Elena took Sofia’s hand.
Sofia took two steps, then stopped.
Pino had not moved.
She looked at him.
“Come.”
I waited for Pino to ignore her.
Instead he rose instantly.
Carlo actually whispered, “Madonna.”
Sofia led my supposedly unmanageable Doberman out of the room.
I watched them go.
Then I turned back to Renata.
She was pale now.
Good.
Not because I wanted her frightened.
Because certainty had finally left her.
“Let’s talk about the clock.”
For the next twenty minutes, I asked simple questions.
Simple questions are difficult for people who have constructed complicated lies.
When had she first noticed the clock missing?
Ten fifty.
No—eleven.
Who had last cleaned the room?
Elena.
Except the schedule showed Elena had been assigned upstairs.
Why had Renata inspected the blue sitting room before lunch when it was normally checked at four?
She had been passing.
Why had she checked the clock specifically?
She had not.
Then how had she noticed its absence immediately?
Renata’s answers became shorter.
Mrs. Bellini’s expression became more troubled.
Finally Tomas returned.
He carried a tablet.
“I found something.”
He set it on the desk.
The service corridor camera showed Renata at 9:14 that morning.
She was carrying a folded linen cloth.
At 9:17, she entered the staff changing corridor.
At 9:19, she left without the cloth.
That alone proved very little.
But another camera showed Elena arriving for her break at 9:42.
Renata had been near the lockers first.
Renata stared at the screen.
“I had towels.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
Mrs. Bellini suddenly leaned toward the image.
“Wait.”
She enlarged the frame.
“That isn’t a towel.”
Renata stiffened.
Mrs. Bellini pointed.
“The embroidery.”
The corner of the fabric showed a tiny blue crest.
She looked at me.
“That is one of the linen covers we use for decorative objects in the blue sitting room when the room is being dusted.”
The same type of cloth, according to Carlo, that had been wrapped around the missing clock.
Renata’s shoulders lowered.
For a moment she looked older.
I expected another denial.
Instead she said quietly, “I need to speak to you alone.”
Mrs. Bellini drew in a breath.
“Renata—”
I held up a hand.
“Give us the room.”
When the door closed behind the others, Renata stared toward the window.
“What I did was wrong.”
I waited.
“But I didn’t steal the clock.”
“I didn’t accuse you of stealing it.”
“No. Because it never left the house.”
That had already occurred to me.
“Why frame Elena?”
Renata’s mouth tightened.
“Because I needed her gone.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Did she know something?”
Renata looked at me then.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“She didn’t know she knew it.”
I felt irritation rise, but forced it down.
“Explain.”
Renata sat without asking.
For the first time that afternoon, she no longer looked like the precise, controlling supervisor I had always seen moving through my house.
She looked tired.
“Three weeks ago Elena helped me organize old household invoices. Mrs. Bellini asked us to clear the storage cupboards before the audit.”
I remembered approving the audit.
“So?”
“She noticed duplicate invoices.”
“For what?”
“Maintenance. Flowers. Catering. Small things at first.”
“Duplicate charges?”
“Yes.”
“Who authorized them?”
Renata lowered her eyes.
“I did.”
The room seemed quieter.
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I know what I signed. I don’t know what happened after.”
That was a strange answer.
“Who gave you the invoices?”
She said nothing.
“Renata.”
Her eyes moved toward the east wing.
Toward the meeting I had abandoned.
Toward four men with contracts, family names, and a marriage proposal disguised as corporate stability.
A cold clarity settled over me.
“Who?”
She whispered a name.
“Vittorio Serra.”
I knew Vittorio.
Everyone in my family knew Vittorio.
He had advised my father for nearly twenty years.
And at that very moment, he was sitting in the east wing helping negotiate the marriage agreement between me and his niece, Bianca Serra.
I stared at Renata.
“What does Vittorio Serra have to do with my household invoices?”
“He told me they were adjustments authorized by your office.”
“They weren’t.”
“I know that now.”
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
Her expression twisted.
“Because I had already signed too many.”
That made sense.
Not acceptable.
But believable.
“So Elena noticed the duplicates.”
“She asked me whether she should mention them to Mrs. Bellini.”
“And you panicked.”
“Yes.”
“You put the clock in her locker.”
Renata closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then accused her.”
“Yes.”
“For something she didn’t do.”
“Yes.”
I walked toward the window.
In the garden beyond the glass, late afternoon light stretched across wet stone.
A meeting waited for me.
Contracts waited for me.
A marriage waited for me.
And apparently, somewhere beneath all of it, someone had been using my household accounts for purposes I did not yet understand.
“Why would Vittorio falsify maintenance invoices?” I asked.
Renata’s answer came quietly.
“I don’t think the money was the important part.”
I turned.
“What was?”
She looked toward the door.
“The signatures.”
“What signatures?”
“Yours.”
I stopped moving.
“I haven’t signed household invoices in years.”
“Not those signatures.”
She swallowed.
“The authorization pages attached to them.”
I knew the forms.
Routine approvals.
Mostly handled electronically.
My office attached my signature to certain recurring accounts.
“What about them?”
Renata’s hands twisted in her lap.
“Last week I saw Vittorio’s assistant photocopying them.”
A long silence passed between us.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Elena see that?”
“No.”
“Who else knows?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought of the men in the east wing.
The merger proposal.
The marriage agreement.
The documents I had been expected to sign before dinner.
Then I thought of why I had left that meeting in the first place.
I had felt crowded.
Pressured.
Everyone kept telling me the agreement was routine.
Everyone kept saying the details had already been reviewed.
Everyone except me seemed unusually eager for my signature.
The missing clock suddenly felt very small.
I opened the office door.
Carlo stood outside.
“Bring Marco from the east wing.”
“My attorney?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
I looked down the corridor.
“Keep them comfortable.”
Carlo’s expression told me he understood precisely how little comfort mattered.
Then I added, “And tell Elena I need to speak with her when she’s ready.”
He nodded.
I started toward my study.
Halfway there, I heard quick little footsteps.
“Coffee man!”
I turned.
Sofia was running toward me, Elena several steps behind her.
Pino trotted beside them.
Sofia stopped and held something up.
A piece of paper.
“I found a picture.”
Elena looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. She picked it up beneath the sideboard in the morning room.”
I took it.
It wasn’t a picture.
It was half of a photocopied document.
Most of it meant nothing at first.
Then I saw my name.
LORENZO DUCA.
Beneath it was my reproduced signature.
And beside that, in small legal print, were three words that had never appeared in any household invoice I had authorized.
Transfer of voting rights.
I looked toward the east wing.
May you like
The marriage meeting was no longer about marriage.
And somebody inside my house had apparently been preparing for my signature long before I entered that room.
