Chapter 2
The Varlli mansion stood behind iron gates and old trees on a private road north of Manhattan. I arrived late Friday morning after moving two appointments and refusing the driver Dante had sent.
The house was not the cold, modern fortress I had imagined. Warm stone, ivy, long windows, and gardens arranged around a central courtyard gave it the appearance of an old family home that had learned to conceal its weapons.
Security men occupied the property so discreetly that a guest could pretend they were gardeners — until one noticed how carefully they watched every moving hand.
Dante met me at the entrance wearing another dark suit. “You came alone.”
“Was I expected to bring guards?”
“Most people who know my name do not enter these gates without reassurance.”
“I have four appointments tomorrow. If I disappear, several wealthy divorcees will complain publicly.”
“You make jokes when nervous.”
“You notice too much for a client.”
“You asked to be examined.”
Before I could answer, a petite woman in a deep blue dress crossed the marble entrance hall toward us. Valyria Varlli had silver hair arranged neatly at her neck, sharp blue-gray eyes, and a cane she appeared to regard as a personal insult.
She took both my hands. “So you are Lena Marchetti. I am the woman who returned my son’s blank check.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “Mama, do not interrupt.”
“I have waited thirty-eight years to see you uncomfortable near a woman.”
I looked at him. “You told her about the check.”
“Dante tells me almost nothing. Rosa tells me enough, and his face tells me the rest.”
“Rosa is the housekeeper.”
“Dante says Rosa is civilization,” Valyria corrected. “Come, we will have coffee before my son begins managing the entire morning.”
A fourth person waited at the breakfast table. Rosina Varlli was Valyria’s late husband’s cousin, one of the trustees who controlled the legacy fund, and the kind of woman who wore pearls before noon because ordinary jewelry failed to communicate rank. Her gaze moved over my taupe suit, modest shoes, and leather folder.
“The matchmaker. How discreet.”
“That is usually the point.”
“I assumed men like Dante met women without professional assistance.”
“Meeting women and recognizing a suitable partner are different skills.”
Valyria hid a smile behind her coffee cup. Rosina did not.
“My preference has always been Serena Bellini,” she said. “Old family, excellent education. No scandals. She understands the obligations attached to a name.”
“Serena has not been selected,” Dante replied.
“Not officially.”
Rosina turned toward me. “Surely your profession begins with the obvious.”
“My work begins with the client and ends with the family. Unless he plans to marry all of you.”
Valyria laughed so suddenly that her spoon struck the saucer. Dante looked down, but I caught the faint movement at the corner of his mouth. Rosina’s expression cooled.
“Miss Marchetti is being paid to evaluate candidates,” she said. “Not to entertain us.”
Dante lifted his eyes. “She is being paid for judgment none of us possess. Treat her accordingly.”
It was a professional defense, nothing more. Still, the words reached somewhere inside me that had grown accustomed to standing alone.
After breakfast, I asked Dante to show me the house as it actually operated, not as visitors saw it. His office contained three phones, two locked cabinets, and one photograph of Valyria as a young bride. His bedroom was immaculate and nearly impersonal, as if he slept there only because the body required a location. The dining room seated twenty-four. Valyria told me Dante ate most evenings alone in his study. The guest suites were always prepared and rarely occupied.
There was space everywhere and intimacy nowhere.
“You want a wife,” I said as we stood beside a library window overlooking the courtyard. “But your life has no place for a woman who expects to be noticed.”
“I would make one.”
“A woman can tell the difference between a place being made for her and a space being cleared around her.”
“Is that going in the file?”
“It already did.”
He watched me write. “What would you require from a client?”
“From a husband?”
“I am not under consideration.”
“Hypothetically, I would require him to understand that marriage does not make my work, friends, habits, or opinions less important than his.”
“Reasonable.”
“You answered too quickly.”
“You assume every answer is evidence against me.”
“Most clients lie in their first interview.”
“Am I lying?”
“Not yet. You are still deciding which truths are safe.”
For one suspended moment, the distance between us felt smaller. Then Valyria called his name. We found her trying to stand without using her cane. Pain tightened her mouth. Dante crossed the room immediately, but he did not embarrass her by calling staff. He moved a footstool beneath her legs, knelt, and loosened one shoe where swelling pressed against leather.
“I am not made of glass,” Valyria said.
“No,” he replied. “You are made of stubbornness and bad knees.”
May you like
She touched his hair, and he looked younger beneath her hand.
I turned away before he could see what the moment did to me.
