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Diana finds me on the terrace with two espressos. She sets the second one at my elbow without a word about it and settles into the other chair with an envelope in her lap. “You will read something for me.”

I have not been able to read this woman since I arrived, but something on paper? Sure. “Of course.”

The envelope contains a letter from her cardiologist filled with numbers. I interpret it, translating medical jargon into something she can understand. “… nothing urgent, but you want to stay on top of your meds.”

She listens with her chin high, the reigning expert on everything, unwilling to concede the field. “He exaggerates at my age. Doctors all do. No offense to present company.”

“Maybe he does in person, but your pressure log matters, Diana. Keep it honest, so he can stay on top of it.”

She studies me over her cup. “Lupo says it is nothing. The cardiologist writes four pages that it is nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. It’s manageable, which is my favorite diagnosis, professionally speaking. And with Lupo, you have to remember that his medical scale is calibrated to Sarah. So, anything more manageable than cancer is going to be nothing in his mind. As much as I respect your son in other arenas, he’s not a doctor, and his medical advice should be weighted as such.”

“Hm.” She looks out at the cypress row while she considers things. “That is sound advice.” She finishes her espresso and stands, and then she pats my cheek once, firm. “You are smarter than he knows.”

I don’t know what to say to that. She warned him that my intelligence is a detriment to his bank accounts. So any sign of agreement with her assessment could be seen as a threat. “You’re very kind.”

She smiles coolly. “I am not.” Then she goes inside.

I’m still at a loss for words when Adeline continues our text thread.

I have called you six times. SIX. Pick up or I’m assuming you’re dead.

I type that I’m alive, that I’m happy, that the story is long and the wine here is better than anything back home. I attach a photo of the cypress drive because it reveals nothing.

Three dots appear before my phone finishes sending. A photo is NOT proof of life, it’s proof of a kidnapper with good taste.

The voicemail is worse. My supervisor Pruitt’s voice arrives stripped of its usual dry patience. “Veda. The committee moved its timeline up—there’s a dinner on the twenty-second, and the list gets shorter after it. High visibility. I can’t shortlist a rumor. I’ve covered for you twice now. Call me back.”

Twice now. I stand with the phone pressed to my sternum and run the math I’ve been refusing to run.

The fast track has a clock. The clock is in Boston. I’m six (seven?) time zones away, drawing blood at a kitchen table. Pruitt built her short list over years of watching who stayed late, who published, who answered pages on holidays. Me. I did all of that. A decade on the ladder, and my grip slips on one unreturned phone call.

It should not slip because of an unreturned phone call. That’s bullshit.

So I don’t call back. Six days remain on this contract, and as far as they know, I am on a vacation I earned. The committee dinner happens after my flight home. It will be fine. I don’t owe Pruitt my constant attention, even if she’s begging for it.

Lupo comes home at dusk with the day still on him, jacket over his shoulder, and finds me in the library pretending to read. I am reading. I’m reading the same sentence over and over, while worrying about Pruitt and her bullshit.

He pours two fingers of something amber, hands it to me unasked, and keeps a glass for himself, which I’ve learned means an announcement is coming. “Yes?”

“Friday, there’s a gala. The Fondazione—fashion week’s big charity night. We’re attending.”

“We?”

“We. A designer will bring the dress—it’s being arranged, and objecting won’t stop it, so save the energy for the party.” He drinks. “There will be cameras at the doors and better-trained eyes inside. You’ll need to be convincing.” Convincing, in his tone, is non-optional.

It is also an insult.

I set my glass down. “I’ve been convincing every minute of every day this week. Your mother is one espresso away from liking me. Telling me to be convincing is just rude at this point.”

“My mother wants to believe. Friday’s audience does not.” He says it evenly. “We’ll be seated at a VIP table. Old family acquaintances. Sharp eyes.”

“Acquaintances with names?”

“Brancati.” The word arrives with no emotion whatsoever, and that’s his tell. They’re important. Not just for the event, but for him too. “Matteo. And his sister, Allegra.”

“And I’m being exhibited at their table because?”