Chapter 3
Marco Bellandi read the page twice.
Then a third time.
Unlike most attorneys, Marco never tried to look intelligent while reading something difficult. He frowned openly, pushed his glasses higher on his nose, and muttered under his breath when a sentence annoyed him.
I had known him since university.
That was one reason I trusted him.
The other was that he had once told my father, in front of an entire boardroom, that a contract was “an expensive pile of nonsense.”
My father hired him the next morning.
Marco finally lowered the paper.
“Where did you get this?”
“Sofia found it under a sideboard.”
He stared at me.
“The four-year-old?”
“Yes.”
“The one with the Doberman?”
“Yes.”
Marco glanced through the study doors.
Sofia was in the adjoining room with Elena and Pino, eating apple slices while drawing what appeared to be a purple house with sixteen windows.
Marco looked back at me.
“I’ve attended stranger corporate investigations.”
“I doubt that.”
“So do I.”
He put the document on my desk.
“This is part of a proxy authorization.”
“For Duca Holdings?”
“It appears so.”
“Appears?”
“Because half the page is missing.”
I folded my arms.
“What would it do?”
“If executed properly, it could temporarily transfer some of your voting authority.”
“To whom?”
“The missing half would tell us.”
“And the signature?”
He looked at it again.
“Copied.”
“You’re sure?”
“I watched you sign enough papers when we were twenty-two to recognize how lazy you become at the end of your surname.”
I almost smiled.
“Useful legal analysis.”
“I charge extra for handwriting insults.”
Then his expression became serious.
“Lorenzo, did Vittorio give you a proxy document today?”
“No.”
“What exactly is waiting in the east wing?”
“A proposed consolidation agreement between Duca Maritime and Serra Logistics. Plus the family trust revisions.”
“And the marriage articles.”
“Yes.”
Marco leaned back.
“You know I disliked combining all three.”
“You made that clear.”
“I believe my exact words were, ‘Do not tie your personal life, corporate control, and inheritance structure into one folder simply because old men enjoy ceremony.’”
“That sounds like you.”
“It was excellent advice.”
“Which I ignored.”
“Temporarily.”
He tapped the page.
“Now I would like to know why a partial voting proxy with your reproduced signature was lying in your morning room.”
“So would I.”
We went through the documents I had been given earlier.
There were thirty-six pages.
Marco examined every one.
Nothing matched the fragment.
That should have reassured me.
It didn’t.
Because whoever had prepared the proxy had not intended me to read it yet.
At four thirty, Bianca Serra knocked on the study door.
I hadn’t sent for her.
She entered anyway.
Bianca was twenty-nine, composed, perceptive, and considerably less interested in marrying me than both our families seemed to believe.
We had known each other since childhood.
Not well.
Our lives crossed at funerals, weddings, charity dinners, and the occasional painfully formal holiday gathering.
She closed the door behind her.
“Uncle Vittorio says you’re reviewing the contracts.”
“I am.”
“He also says you’ve turned a missing clock into a criminal investigation.”
“Vittorio has always enjoyed summaries.”
Bianca’s mouth curved.
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“I’m not.”
She studied me.
“May I sit?”
“You never used to ask.”
“We were twelve.”
“You broke my grandmother’s vase.”
“You blamed the cat.”
“There was no cat.”
“That was the weakness in our strategy.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It surprised both of us.
Bianca sat opposite Marco.
“I assume something actually happened.”
Marco looked at me.
I nodded.
He placed the partial proxy in front of her.
Bianca read it.
Her expression changed slowly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Where did this come from?”
“Why does everyone ask that first?” Marco muttered.
I ignored him.
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened on the page.
Then she added, “But I recognize the formatting.”
Marco leaned forward.
“From where?”
“My uncle’s office.”
I watched her carefully.
She seemed genuinely troubled.
“You’re certain?”
“The Serra legal department uses this typeface for internal drafts. And these document codes.”
She pointed to a faint sequence at the bottom.
“SL-LG-41.”
Marco pulled the page closer.
“I missed that.”
“Because you’re looking at legal language. I’ve spent six years looking at company templates.”
Bianca’s position within Serra Logistics was often misunderstood.
Our families still spoke of her as if she were a decorative extension of her uncle’s ambitions.
In reality, she managed a significant part of their European operations.
“What would Vittorio want with my voting rights?” I asked.
Bianca looked toward the window.
“I don’t know.”
It was too quick.
“You have an idea.”
“No.”
“Bianca.”
Her jaw tightened.
“My uncle has been worried about the consolidation.”
“Then why is he pushing it?”
“That’s exactly why he’s pushing it.”
She stood and walked toward the bookshelves.
“Serra Logistics expanded too quickly two years ago. New terminals, new routes, new debt.”
“I know.”
“No. You know the version in the reports.”
Marco and I exchanged a look.
Bianca continued.
“My uncle believes a merger with Duca Maritime would stabilize our financing. Your company has stronger cash reserves.”
“That isn’t a secret.”
“No. But the urgency is.”
She faced me.
“One of our lenders is reviewing the terms of a major credit facility in November.”
“What happens if they change them?”
“We would survive.”
The pause before the next sentence mattered.
“But we would have to sell assets.”
“How many?”
“Enough to damage the company.”
I sat slowly.
“And your uncle thought marrying us would make me more likely to approve the merger.”
“I think he believed it would make both families less likely to question it.”
That was different.
More subtle.
More believable.
Also more disappointing.
“Did you know?”
“That the business had problems? Yes.”
“That marriage was being used as leverage?”
“I suspected.”
“And you came here anyway.”
Her expression sharpened.
“So did you.”
Fair.
Marco leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach.
“This is refreshing. Two people nearly entering a marriage while both privately hoping the other one would object first.”
Bianca glared at him.
“Marco.”
“I’m merely summarizing.”
She looked at me.
“I didn’t want to embarrass my family.”
Neither had I.
There it was.
The real trap.
Not contracts.
Not tradition.
Not even Vittorio.
We had both been standing on opposite sides of a decision neither wanted because neither wished to be the person who disappointed everyone.
A remarkably foolish reason to marry someone.
“I left the meeting because I needed air,” I said.
Bianca gave a quiet laugh.
“I spent ten minutes hoping you wouldn’t come back.”
That settled one matter.
“Then we agree.”
“Completely.”
Marco lifted one finger.
“As touching as this mutual rejection is, may we return to the forged proxy?”
Bianca sat again.
“There’s something else.”
She looked uncomfortable.
“My uncle asked me to sign an acknowledgment this morning.”
“What acknowledgment?”
“I thought it concerned the trust revisions.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
She gave me a look.
“I run operations involving three countries. I read documents before signing them.”
Marco nodded approvingly.
“My favorite person in the room.”
Bianca continued.
“One clause referred to an interim voting arrangement after the consolidation.”
Marco’s expression became intent.
“Whose votes?”
“It wasn’t specific.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“My assistant does.”
“Call her.”
Bianca did.
Seven minutes later, the document arrived by email.
Marco read it once and swore softly.
“What?”
He turned the laptop.
“The acknowledgment establishes a mechanism for an interim governance committee.”
“That sounds ordinary.”
“It would be, except the committee receives expanded authority if either principal shareholder is ‘temporarily unavailable to exercise voting rights.’”
Bianca went still.
“And the proxy makes Lorenzo temporarily unavailable.”
“Not exactly,” Marco said. “It delegates his voting rights voluntarily.”
“If someone accepted the signature.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the page.
“Who sits on the committee?”
Marco scrolled.
Then stopped.
“Vittorio Serra.”
Bianca closed her eyes.
“And two trustees he recommended,” Marco added.
That was not proof of some grand conspiracy.
Documents frequently overlapped.
Trustees served on committees.
Family advisors accumulated roles.
But patterns mattered.
Especially when someone had been copying my signature authorization pages.
I stood.
“I’m speaking to Vittorio.”
Bianca rose.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“He’s my uncle.”
“Exactly.”
“And if you accuse him of something he can explain, you’ll destroy a forty-year relationship between our families.”
“I’m not accusing him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Ask questions.”
Marco gathered the documents.
“On that cheerful note, I suggest we remember we still don’t know whether Vittorio prepared the proxy.”
Bianca nodded.
“Someone in his office did.”
“That is not the same thing.”
She exhaled.
“You’re right.”
It mattered that she could say it.
By five o’clock, we had moved the discussion to the smaller library.
Vittorio arrived with my uncle Paolo and two company advisers.
He looked irritated.
“Lorenzo, we have been waiting for nearly two hours.”
“I know.”
“There are documents to finish.”
“I know.”
“Then perhaps you can explain—”
I placed the partial proxy on the table.
He stopped.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No confession.
No collapse.
He simply looked at the paper.
Then at me.
“Where did you find that?”
Marco sighed.
“I am beginning to hate that question.”
Vittorio ignored him.
“Lorenzo?”
“In my morning room.”
“That is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because that draft was destroyed.”
Bianca inhaled sharply.
I watched him.
“You recognize it.”
“Of course I recognize it.”
“What is it?”
“A preliminary proxy arrangement that was proposed months ago and rejected.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
That was unexpected.
Even Bianca looked surprised.
Vittorio pulled out a chair.
“Before everyone decides I have secretly attempted to steal Lorenzo’s company, perhaps I may speak.”
I gestured for him to continue.
“When we first began discussing consolidation, our legal advisers considered several transitional governance structures. One included reciprocal voting proxies.”
“Reciprocal?”
“Yes. Lorenzo would have held equivalent temporary authority over certain Serra shares.”
Marco looked at Bianca’s acknowledgment.
“Why isn’t that in the current agreement?”
“Because I rejected it.”
“Why?”
“Because Lorenzo would never approve it, and neither should Bianca.”
Bianca stared at him.
“You told me the committee clause was necessary.”
“It is.”
“But you rejected the proxies?”
“Yes.”
“Then why does this copy have Lorenzo’s signature?”
For the first time, Vittorio looked genuinely confused.
“It shouldn’t.”
I believed that confusion.
I didn’t yet believe everything else.
“Renata says your assistant copied signature authorization pages from household invoices.”
Vittorio’s face hardened.
“My assistant?”
“Gabriel Monti.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Renata saw him.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
Vittorio stood.
“Gabriel hasn’t been in this house for a month.”
Bianca shook her head.
“That’s not true. I saw him here Tuesday.”
Vittorio turned.
“What?”
“He was leaving the west entrance.”
“My office sent him to Milan last Monday.”
Silence settled over the library.
“Apparently,” Marco said slowly, “Mr. Monti has a more complicated calendar than anyone realized.”
Carlo appeared at the door before I could respond.
“Signor Duca?”
“Yes?”
“There is something you should see.”
He carried a slim cardboard folder.
Mrs. Bellini followed him.
Her face was tense.
“We searched the storage cupboard where Renata kept the old invoices,” she said. “As you requested.”
Carlo set the folder on the table.
Inside were photocopies.
Dozens.
Household authorization sheets.
My reproduced signatures.
Old corporate letterheads.
Blank trust forms.
And several pages bearing the Serra Logistics document code.
Vittorio sat very still.
Bianca leafed through them.
“These came from our office.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Marco separated the papers by date.
Then Mrs. Bellini placed one more item on the table.
A small notebook.
“Renata says this isn’t hers.”
It contained dates, initials, and short handwritten notes.
Most meant nothing to me.
Then Bianca pointed to three entries.
“GM.”
Gabriel Monti.
Beside his initials were amounts.
Not enormous ones.
Ten thousand.
Eight thousand.
Fifteen thousand.
Payments small enough to disappear inside companies our size.
Marco examined another page.
“These match some of the duplicate household invoices.”
Vittorio’s face lost color.
“This isn’t about the merger.”
“Then what is it about?” I asked.
He did not answer immediately.
Because he had noticed something.
A date.
Six months earlier.
He touched it.
“No.”
Bianca moved closer.
“What?”
Vittorio looked at me.
“Six months ago, Gabriel asked me for temporary access to archived Duca documents.”
“Why?”
“He said Bianca needed historical partnership records.”
Bianca’s head snapped up.
“I never asked for them.”
Vittorio’s face tightened.
“I gave him authorization.”
Marco stared at him.
“To access what?”
“Old agreements. Correspondence. Signature records.”
The room became very quiet.
Vittorio looked suddenly every year of his age.
“I thought I was helping prepare the consolidation.”
Bianca spoke softly.
“You never checked with me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His answer was painfully simple.
“Because I assumed.”
That word seemed to hang over the table.
I thought of Mrs. Bellini assuming an open locker meant carelessness.
Tomas assuming a recovered clock ended the investigation.
Renata assuming exposure would destroy her life.
Bianca and I assuming refusing a marriage would disappoint everyone too deeply.
Vittorio assuming his assistant was acting on legitimate instructions.
An entire day built from assumptions.
And a four-year-old child had been the first person to say plainly what she believed had happened.
Marco closed the notebook.
“We need Gabriel.”
Vittorio reached for his phone.
“He won’t answer me.”
“You’ve tried?”
“Three times since we began talking.”
Bianca was already calling her assistant.
She spoke briefly, listened, then looked at us.
“Gabriel didn’t go to Milan.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“No one knows.”
That could have sounded sinister.
Instead, it felt irritatingly incomplete.
People disappeared from offices for many ordinary reasons.
We needed facts.
Not fear.
“I’ll have security preserve access records,” I said. “Marco, contact the corporate auditors.”
Vittorio nodded.
“And I will authorize a complete review of Serra records.”
Bianca looked at him.
“All of them?”
“All.”
It was the first decision he made that day without calculating its effect on the merger.
I respected him more for it.
The investigation could wait until morning.
Sofia could not.
When I finally returned to the morning room, I found her asleep on the sofa.
One small hand rested on Pino’s neck.
Pino was lying on the carpet beside her, motionless except for his breathing.
Elena sat nearby.
She rose when I entered.
“Is it over?”
“Your part is.”
She searched my face.
“Renata admitted putting the clock in my locker?”
“Yes.”
Elena lowered her eyes.
I expected anger.
Instead she looked sad.
“Will she lose her job?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Elena looked surprised.
“After what she did?”
“What she did was serious.”
“Then why wouldn’t you dismiss her?”
“Because I’m trying to understand the difference between accountability and making decisions while angry.”
For a moment Elena simply watched me.
Then she glanced at Sofia.
“That can be difficult.”
“You sound experienced.”
A faint smile.
“I have a four-year-old.”
Fair.
I sat in the chair opposite her.
“Why didn’t you report the duplicate invoices when you noticed them?”
“I planned to.”
“What stopped you?”
“Renata.”
“She threatened you?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“She asked me to give her one day.”
“Why?”
“She said there might be an accounting mistake and she wanted to check before embarrassing Mrs. Bellini.”
“And you believed her?”
Elena thought.
“I believed she was afraid.”
That answer stayed with me.
“You still gave her the day?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you suspected something was wrong?”
“She has worked here seventeen years. I had worked here eleven months.”
There was no bitterness in her voice.
Only realism.
She looked toward Sofia.
“I know what it is to make a mistake because you are afraid of losing stability.”
I waited.
Elena folded her hands.
“When Sofia was a baby, I stayed in a job that was wrong for me much longer than I should have because I was frightened of losing our apartment. Nothing terrible happened. Nobody hurt me. I was simply unhappy every day.”
She smiled faintly.
“One morning Sofia laughed for the first time while I was getting ready for work. I realized I was spending every day teaching her that being afraid was a good enough reason to remain somewhere you didn’t belong.”
That landed closer than she could have known.
The east wing.
The marriage.
The family expectations.
I looked at the sleeping child.
“So you left.”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing what came next?”
“I knew what came next.”
“What?”
“Tuesday.”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
“You survive Monday. Then Tuesday arrives. You find another job. You call someone. You make soup. You keep going.”
It was such an ordinary philosophy that it felt almost radical.
No dramatic declarations.
No guarantee.
Just Tuesday.
I laughed quietly.
Elena seemed surprised.
“What?”
“I spent this afternoon surrounded by lawyers explaining contingency structures.”
“And?”
“None of them mentioned Tuesday.”
“They should charge less.”
From the sofa came a sleepy mumble.
“Mommy?”
Elena immediately went to Sofia.
“I’m here.”
Sofia opened one eye.
“Spaghetti.”
Elena smiled.
“Yes.”
“With cheese.”
“Yes.”
Pino lifted his head.
Sofia patted him.
“Pino comes.”
I almost said absolutely not.
Then I looked at him.
The animal had spent half the afternoon letting a child use him as furniture.
“Pino can accompany you to the kitchen.”
Elena laughed.
“You realize she thinks he belongs to her now.”
“That concerns me.”
Sofia sat up.
“He likes me.”
Pino thumped his tail once.
Traitor.
Elena helped her put on her little cardigan.
At the door, she stopped.
“Signor Duca?”
“Lorenzo.”
She hesitated.
“Thank you, Lorenzo.”
“For what?”
“For listening before deciding.”
After they left, I stood alone in the morning room.
On the table was Sofia’s drawing.
The purple house.
Sixteen windows.
Three stick figures.
One enormous black dog.
I looked closer.
There was a fourth stick figure near the door.
Tall.
Wearing what appeared to be a crooked black tie.
Above it, in Elena’s handwriting, because Sofia clearly could not spell it herself, was a label.
Coffee Man.
I smiled.
Then noticed something beneath the paper.
A business card.
Gabriel Monti.
It must have slipped out with the documents found earlier.
On the back was handwritten a telephone number.
And underneath it, five words:
ASK ABOUT VILLA SAN LUCA.
I took the card to Marco.
He stopped smiling the moment he read it.
“Do you know the name?”
“No.”
He did.
I could see it.
“Marco.”
He removed his glasses.
“Villa San Luca was one of your father’s properties.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the closed door.
“Because your father sold it seventeen years ago.”
The same year Renata began working for my family.
“Who bought it?”
Marco hesitated.
Then he said, “According to the public record, a holding company.”
“What holding company?”
He looked at me.
“Monti Holdings.”
May you like
Gabriel Monti’s family.
And suddenly the missing clock, the forged signatures, the duplicate invoices, and an assistant who should have been in Milan seemed connected to something that had begun long before any of us entered the east wing that afternoon.
