The butler, a middle-aged man named Dante, who was dressed in a very smart suit, led Aida around her new home.
“I think I’m in a dream,” she told Dante in Italian.
“Then we are both having the same dream.” Dante beamed. He seemed to take great joy in her utter delight over the historic palazzo. “This gallery has frescoes by Pietro da Cortona.” Dante guided her into a vast ballroom with ancient statues in niches around the room. Above them, busts backlit with a golden glow, interspersed with beautiful paintings of the myths, looked out over the space. A long table with a massive candelabra stood in the center of the room, flanked by at least thirty chairs. A credenza at the end of the table displayed a precious china dinner service. “This room is perfect for entertaining. But I imagine you may want to take your meals in one of the smaller salons or terraces, or perhaps the garden.”
Aida found thesaladeimappamondi, the map room, even more wondrous than the gallery. Frescoes depicting scenes from the stories of biblical hero David adorned every inch of the walls. In the center of the room rested two massive globes, one depictingthe heavens and the other the earth. Aida longed to turn the globes but wasn’t sure if she should touch them.
“If you are careful,” Dante said with a smile when she asked. Aida turned the heavenly globe, and a rush of joy filled her. Her father loved big globes, and one of her fondest memories was of a trip she took with him to New York when she was young. He showed her the metal Verrazzano Globe in the Morgan Library. She had been eight and it was the first time she had really understood that America was a young country—the map showed how little Europeans had known of the New World in 1524. As a young adult, she always sent her father pictures of the big globes she saw when she traveled through Europe. Never in all the times she had stood in a map room had she imagined she might live in a house with one.
Out of habit, she pulled out her phone with the intention of taking a photo, but Dante placed a warning hand on her arm. “I won’t police you, but I am obliged to remind you of your NDA. No photos are allowed here. You can take photos of places you visit externally but not in areas where MODA is stationed. You’ll learn more about these restrictions when you meet Trista, your aide.”
The name was familiar from emails with Fran, who had mentioned she would be assigned an aide to manage her travel, keep track of her calendar, and guide her on projects. Aida pocketed her phone, feeling frustrated, but she had agreed to the rules when she’d signed up for this gig.
“How many bedrooms does the palazzo have?” she asked Dante after he had led her to the breathtaking space where she would sleep every night. Aida’s bedroom, which Dante called thestanza di Ulisse, was an embrace of classical elegance. The ceiling boasted a tableau of Ulysses’s adventures, his cunning visage captured in frescoes edged with golden cornices that glinted under the soft chandelier light. Rich yet worn by time, damask patterns adorned the walls, echoing stories of a grand past. The polished checkerboard floor, cool to the touch, led to windowsthat framed the city’s silhouette. Amid this historical canvas, the furnishings spoke of unabashed luxury—a four-poster bed with carved wooden posts and a canopy of sheer fabric, a pair of velvet armchairs facing an ornate fireplace, and a mahogany writing desk by the window, inviting Aida to pen her thoughts while overlooking the lush Renaissance-style courtyard.
“Fifteen. Half are occupied by staff.”
Dante led her around the rest of her palatial home, introducing her to the staff—three maids, a groundskeeper, the chauffeur, the chef, and the sous-chef. Aida blurred the names during the tour, except for the chef and his assistant, who immediately made an impression on her.
The palazzo’s chef was not much taller than Aida’s five foot five, a thin bald man with rounded glasses and a salty goatee. His chef’s coat was pure white, and he wore a black-and-white scarf knotted around his neck. “And you must be Signorina Aida Reale,” he said in English, approaching her when she entered the kitchen. The aroma of cooking tomatoes and basil wafted toward her.
“Sì, I am,” she said as he took her hands.
“I’m Chef Ilario! I’ll make you anything your heart desires. Please, signorina, tell me you like to eat.”
Aida laughed. “I do! Perhaps too much.”
“No! Not too much in this place. Your mouth and your belly will be filled with joy. Is that not right, Pippa?” He turned back toward the interior of the kitchen, where a young woman was chopping onions on a wooden board. She looked up, briefly nodded, and returned to her task.
“You will learn, signorina, that Pippa is very serious, but I promise her seriousness will benefit you with every meal.”
Someone behind Aida nervously cleared their throat. Chef Ilario let go of Aida’s hands, and she turned to see who had interrupted them. It was a young woman in her mid-twenties with large features—big blue eyes and full lips. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her mousy brown hair was pulledback into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were sad-looking, as though she might burst into tears any minute. She held a tablet in her hands.
“Midispiace,” the woman apologized. “I need to update Miss Reale on her first assignment.” Her accent marked her as British.
“This is Trista Acheron,” Dante said.
Trista nodded at Aida, but did not extend a hand in greeting.
“Signorina Reale, please call me if you need anything,” Dante said, providing her with a phone number to reach him at for any reason—a modern-day bellpull, as he put it. Then he departed.
“Come with me,” Trista said, not looking back to see if Aida was following.
“How long have you worked for MODA?” Aida asked as they walked.
“Long enough. Maybe seven, eight years?” she muttered, barely audible.
Trista wasn’t as young as Aida had thought. “Do you enjoy it?” she asked.
The aide glanced at her, as though contemplating how serious Aida might be. “Of course. What sort of question is that?”
Aida drew in a small breath, shocked at the vehemence in the woman’s voice. She looked timid, but clearly was not.
“A sincere one,” she said to Trista.
Trista remained silent but gestured to an open door, leading into a library. Towering shelves lined with books flanked the room, and plush velvet couches in Baroque design invited leisurely reading. The grandeur of the double doors drew the eye, revealing a balcony that offered views of the manicured garden below. At the room’s center stood a desk, its antique facade belying a trove of modern conveniences—a retractable keyboard tray, monitors that rose from secret compartments, and a discreet panel with buttons to summon Dante, the kitchen, or security. To illustrate, Trista pressed a button, placing an order for tea with Chef Ilario.
“My office is adjacent to this room,” Trista noted, pointingat an inconspicuous door. “There’s no button for me, but I’ll hear you if you call and I am there.”
