"Hey. I was just reading about this amazing Caravaggio exhibit in—"
"I have to go to the office," I interrupted. "Something's come up."
Her smile faded. She knew that tone. "What kind of something?"
"Not sure yet. Rocco found something in Bianca's documents. About Piero. Do you have any idea…?"
Paola shook her head. “I tried to stay out of Giovanni’s business as much as I could. If your brother was involved I wouldn’t have known.” She’d shifted to calling her father by his name, now, a signifier of the ties severed between them. She closed her laptop, already standing. "I'm coming with you."
"Paola—"
"We've been through this. We're partners now. Whatever this is, we face it together." She moved toward the bedroom to change. "Give me five minutes."
I should argue. Should tell her to stay where it was safe, where I wouldn’t have to worry about her while dealing with whatever Rocco found.
But she was right. We were partners now. And I'd learned over the past five weeks that Paola's instincts were often sharper than my own.
"Five minutes," I agreed.
We took the Aston Martin—the car I rarely drove, kept in the building's private garage for occasions that demanded speed over discretion.
Manhattan traffic was typical for Tuesday afternoon. Congested but moving, a river of metal and exhaust.
Paola sat quiet beside me, sensing my tension. Her hand rested on her lap, fingers occasionally tapping an unconscious rhythm.
"Do you think Piero's in trouble?" she asked finally.
"I don't know. Piero's been solid for six years. Never given me reason to doubt him."
"But?"
"But Bianca had access to a lot of information before she ran. If she documented something about Piero..." I didn't finish the thought.
If my brother had been compromised, if there was evidence of betrayal—
It would destroy me. Piero was the only family I trusted completely. The only family I still had.
Paola's hand found mine on the gear shift. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Like we handle everything else."
Her faith in us—in "we"—steadied me more than she knew.
The building rose sleek and modern in Midtown—forty stories of glass and steel housing legitimate Monti Industries operations. My office occupied the top floor, naturally. A corner space with views of Manhattan stretching in three directions.
We took the private elevator. Security nodded as we passed—everyone knew Mrs. Monti now. Five weeks of occasional visits, of Paola bringing me lunch, of building a public image of devoted newlyweds.
It wasn't entirely performance anymore. That was the strange part.
Rocco waited in my office, laptop open, documents spread across the mahogany desk in careful rows. He looked like he hadn't slept—eyes red-rimmed, coffee cups scattered across every available surface.
"How long have you been working on this?" I asked.
"Since you brought the documents back. I wanted to be thorough. Verify everything before I brought you something that might be... problematic."
The hesitation in Rocco's voice was unusual. He was normally direct, blunt even.
"Show me."
Rocco pulled up the first document—an email thread, encrypted but Bianca had included the decryption key.
