Edoardo made a few notes on the yellow pad he had been using while out on thecalle. ‘Hmm. And as my papers indicate, there is some shared equity in the school. Resources, equipment, et cetera . . . including savings and shares.’
Was that a question? What was Edoardo digging for? ‘La Scuola Rosaisin a solid financial position. And yes, the equity is in the name of the school. Some of what physically lives downstairs belonged to my parents, but the rest is property of the school.’
His note-taking continued, and Mariella tried in vain to crane her neck inconspicuously to catch a glimpse of what he was writing.
Frustrated by this to-ing and fro-ing, Lucia could now feel the tension rising from her feet. ‘Edoardo. I’m sorry for being blunt, but what does this have to do with settling Jacopo’s estate?’
After a pause, the lawyer set down his pen and removed his glasses. ‘Lucia, please explain to me how you understand the current ownership of the school.’
‘I inherited my parents’ half after they . . .’ She took a deep breath and forced an acknowledging nod to her situation. ‘And Jacopo owns the other. Owned. Itwashis.’
‘Ho capito. . .’ Edoardo said, bringing the end of his pen to the corner of his mouth.
Lucia got up from the table and went to her desk. She rifled through the second drawer, withdrew a white envelope and returned to the table. ‘Ecco,’ she said, passing it to Edoardo. ‘And this was the promise Jacopo made me on my eighteenth birthday . . . abouthishalf.’
Edoardo withdrew a yellowing birthday card from the envelope and held it aloft in his chubby fingers. The cover featured a pink glitter-embossed ‘18’. His eyes scanned the hand-written message within. ‘Intent to entrust, I’m afraid, Lucia, holds no water.’
Lucia’s mind suddenly scrambled. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Jacopo Molin never formalised this intent in a legal sense. In his will.’ He patted the papers by his plate.
In unison, Lucia, Francesco and Mariella all sat up straighter in their chairs.
‘What does that mean?’ Lucia’s mouth went dry as she pushed out the words.
‘Legally, you have no claim over Jacopo’s half of the school.’ He handed her back the birthday card. ‘Thathalf is not yours.’
Lucia felt herself buckle in the chair, and Foscari, sensing the change in her, scuttled to her feet.
‘So . . . what? I mean . . . who?’ She steepled her hands in front of her, the knuckles white. Francesco rose and came around to join her. He crouched down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. ‘Jacopo doesn’t have any famil—’
‘He does, actually,’ Edoardo interrupted. ‘An estranged nephew, Roberto Molin. He lives in Chicago, in the United States. He is a businessman, works with stocks. Has a wife, two children.’
‘Dio. . .’ Lucia dropped her face into her hands and her shoulders curled.
‘Never fear, Lucia,’ Edoardo said, taking a spoonful of risotto into his mouth. Chewing, he added, ‘Not all is lost.’
Lucia looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have been in talks with Roberto since Jacopo’s death. As the only surviving relative, the entire estate is entrusted to him. As for Jacopo’s share of La Scuola Rosa . . . he wants no part of it. In fact, he has assigned me to oversee its handover.’
‘Handover? To me?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
Lucia cleared her throat. ‘Tell me what I have to do.’
‘I explained your situation to Roberto, as I understood it at the time. Given your long-standing history with Jacopo, he welcomes you to sign an expression to purchase contract—’
‘Of course I will!’ Lucia blurted, her hands fumbling on the table in search of a pen. ‘Tell me where to sign!’
‘Roberto has a keen business eye. He knows that a unique commercial opportunity like this in the city of Venice doesn’t come along every day. And so, before I came to see you, he wanted me to scope other potential purchasers from the market.’
Lucia swallowed. ‘And?’
‘And, there is one other person who wishes to purchase Jacopo’s share of the school.’
Lucia’s blood ran cold. All she could do was stand and begin pacing the short distance between the kitchen area and the dining table, Foscari trotting alongside. Lucia’s wide-set emerald-green eyes locked with Mariella’s. ‘Can you believe this? Mamma and Papà . . .’ she began, and Mariella simply shook her head in disbelief. Turning her attention back to Edoardo, who was now picking through the fillets of turbot from the roasting tray, Lucia asked, ‘Who wants it?’
