There you are.
I don’t turn. The woman in the portrait has one hand resting on the back of a chair. Her face is young. Too young for the expression in her eyes. There’s a brass plate beneath the frame.
Isabelle Moretti Vitale.
Alessandro’s wife. Dante’s mother. Before she passed, that is.
The guard says, “Miss Brennan.”
I turn. “Am I lost?”
His face doesn’t move. “Yes.”
That almost amuses me. “How fortunate you were behind me.”
“This way.”
I don’t return to the east wing immediately when I leave the chapel. Instead, I take the longer corridor, the one that curves along the garden side of the house and pretends to exist for architectural balance rather than purpose.
It’s quieter here. Less monitored, or at least less obviously so. Tall windows run the length of the wall, overlooking the lower terrace. The glass is old enough to distort reflections slightly, which makes it useful. I can see without being easily seen.
I stop midway down. Not because of the view. Because of the sound. Gravel shifts below, controlled, deliberate. Not staff—staff move quickly, efficiently. This is slower. Weighted.
I step closer to the window. Three men stand in the garden. Two, I don’t recognize. The third…
I know instantly.
Alessandro Vitale doesn’t need any introduction. The space organizes around him in a way that removes the requirement.
He stands at the center of the path, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. No visible weapon. No visible tension. The kind of stillness that doesn’t invite challenge because it has already calculated the outcome.
The other two men face him. Listening.
I shift my weight slightly, adjusting my angle so the glass catches more reflection than light. If anyone looks up, they’ll see movement, not detail.
Not that it matters. If he looks up, he’ll know.
He’s speaking. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. The older man—gray at the temples, expensive suit, posture that suggests he’s used to being deferred to—begins explaining something. His hands move once, as if outlining a point he believes matters.
Alessandro doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t react. He simply listens. Which is worse. Because men who listen like that are not considering what’s being said. They’re already deciding what will happen next.
The second man—shorter, broader, no suit—glances between them. Waiting. Measuring where he stands in whatever this is.
The older man speaks again. Longer this time. Too long.
There’s a moment—small, almost invisible—where Alessandro tilts his head. Assessment. Then he says something. Short. I don’t hear it.
The older man stops. Mid-thought. Mid-breath. The second man straightens, instinctively.
The meeting ends without announcement. The men step back.
Alessandro doesn’t move immediately. He stands there for a moment longer, looking at nothing in particular, as if the outcome requires no further confirmation.
Then he turns slightly and looks up. Directly. At this window.
At me.
There’s no searching in it. He knows exactly where I am. Of course he does. This is his house. Nothing in it exists without passing through him first.
