“You’re familiar with the cathedral.” It comes out more accusatory than I intend.
“I’m familiar with the foundation that funds its restoration.” He turns those dark eyes back to me. “And with the restoration grant that brought you here, Miss Murphy.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine.
“You know my name.”
“The Marchetti Foundation vets all its grant recipients.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to know personal details about strangers. “Your proposal was impressive, Miss Murphy. A comprehensive damage assessment with particular attention to the fresco cycle. Not manyconservators have the expertise to handle both architectural and painterly deterioration.”
The Marchetti Foundation.
I know the name. It’s on every piece of correspondence I received about this grant, every wire transfer to my project account. I’d assumed it was run by some faceless board of wealthy Sicilians with more money than involvement.
Not... whoever this is.
“Thank you, and you are?”
That almost-smile again. “Elio.”
Just Elio. Like Madonna, or Cher, or the kind of person who doesn’t need a last name because everyone already knows who they are.
Great. A rich guy with an interest in preservation and an allergy to complete sentences.
“Well, Elio.” I emphasize the single name, letting him hear the sarcasm. “Is there something specific you wanted, or do you just enjoy startling women at their workplace?”
He laughs. It’s a low sound, surprised, like he didn’t expect to make it. The expression cracks something in his perfectly composed face, makes him look younger. Almost human.
“I apologize,” he says again, and this time it sounds genuine. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just curious about the work, this particular restoration is close to my heart.”
“The work.” I gesture at the scaffolding, the cameras, the disaster zone that is the east wall. “The work is trying not to let a four-hundred-year-old building collapse on my head while I document exactly how badly it’s falling apart.”
“A noble pursuit.”
“It’s a depressing pursuit. Everything here is dying. The plaster, the frescoes, the structural integrity of that column over there that I’m pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since Vatican II. I’m basically doing triage on a corpse.”
“And yet you stay.”
And yet I stay.
The words catch me off guard. He says them like they mean something, likestayingwith a dying thing is remarkable instead of just... what you do.
“It’s worth saving,” I say quietly. “Even the parts that are already lost. Documenting them matters. Bearing witness matters. Someone painted those angels four hundred years ago, and when they finally crumble to dust, there should be a record that they existed.”
Elio is silent for a long moment. Those dark eyes study my face with an intensity that should feel invasive but doesn’t. Or maybe it does, and I’ve just stopped caring.
“Broken beautiful things,” he murmurs. “You preserve them because no one else will.”
It’s not a question.
How does this stranger, with his handsome face, his expensive suit, his expensive cologne and his air of owning everything he touches, understand something I’ve never articulated to another person? Something I barely articulate to myself?
“Someone has to.” My voice is rougher than I want it to be.
He nods. Just once. Like I’ve confirmed something he already suspected.
“Have you eaten today? I’d love to hear more about how your progress is going—the grant committee would appreciate a comprehensive update on your initial findings, particularly the status of the East Wall.”
The question is so unexpected that I actually laugh. “What?”
