Two days later: staff reassignment. Three maids transferred to lower house. Two guards added to upper corridor. Meals delivered privately.
I stare at the lines until the ink begins to blur. The record says nothing about Isabelle’s condition. No illness named. No visitors restricted by medical necessity. No priest. No council entry. Just rooms closed. Staff moved. A doctor installed. And Alessandro’s initials like a lock on the whole thing.
I turn another page. There.
A council dinner canceled. Reason: internal correction.
What an exquisite phrase. So clean. So bloodless.
So perfectly Alessandro.
Corrections have been applied.I can hear him saying it. Not as confession. As fact.
I press my fingers lightly against the page.Internal correction.Not Isabelle’s death.
Before. Something happened before. Something requiring restriction, doctor, staff movement, Dante relocation, and cancellation of council presence.
Not public. Not council. Handled inside. By Alessandro.
I copy the phrase, then sit back. This isn’t about Dante. I came here looking for the shape of his son’s damage. Instead, I’ve found Alessandro’s. Or one of them.
Older. Buried. Still affecting the structure. The code he broke with my father may not have been the first fracture. It may only have been the one that finally reached me.
A sound comes from the hall. Footsteps. I close the ledger.
The door opens. Salvatore Ricci enters carrying two books and the weary dignity of a man who has watched powerful men make stupid decisions for longer than I’ve been alive. He pauses when he sees me.
“Miss Brennan.”
“SignorRicci.”
His eyes flick to the ledger, then to my face. “Research?”
“Boredom.”
“That’s rarely so dangerous.”
“You haven’t seen the embroidery options Teresa keeps suggesting.”
His mouth softens by a fraction. “You read household ledgers when bored?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“So I see.” He places his books on the table. “You’re looking at old years.”
I glance down. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then the ledgers are doing most of the work.”
He studies me for a moment. His gaze isn’t like Alessandro’s. Alessandro categorizes. Salvatore weighs. There’s a difference. Categorizing tells you what box someone belongs in. Weighing tells you what they might cost.
“You should be careful with old records,” he says.
“Because they’re fragile?”
“Because they’re rarely dead.”
