Chapter 3
By Monday, I had reduced a list of forty-seven women to twelve.
By Wednesday, seven had been eliminated through background checks, conflicting values, or honest refusal after learning what entering Dante’s life would involve.
One woman admired powerful men only from a safe distance. Another asked whether the engagement would include a guaranteed apartment in Paris. A third said she could tolerate criminal rumors but not Valyria’s involvement in Sunday dinners.
That left three serious candidates.
Elise Monroe was a corporate attorney with dark hair, a dry sense of humor, and enough confidence to make powerful men sit straighter.
She met Dante first, on a Friday evening. She did not ask how many houses he owned.
She asked whether his future wife would retain independent access to money, whether she could disagree with him publicly, and whether his security arrangements required consent or obedience.
“Do people disagree with you?” she asked over dinner. “Do they remain employed?”
“The useful ones.”
“Do they remain alive?”
“Usually.”
Elise smiled. “That answer requires improvement.”
Dante looked across the restaurant toward the table where I sat observing. His eyes searched my face before returning to Elise. I lowered my gaze to my notes.
After Elise left, Dante arrived at my office even though I had suggested a telephone debrief. It was nearly ten. He removed his jacket and sat across from me as if late evenings in my office had already become a habit.
“You did not dislike her,” I said.
“No. She challenged you repeatedly. You asked for courage.”
“I did.”
“Then why do you look exhausted?”
“Every question became an argument.”
“Perhaps because every answer sounded like an order.”
“You agree with her.”
“That is not relevant.”
“You were watching me.”
“That is my job.”
“You frowned when I said separate finances were unnecessary.”
“Because they may be necessary to her.”
“Would they be necessary to you?”
“I am not a candidate.”
His gaze held mine. “You say that often.”
“Because you keep forgetting it.”
We discussed Elise for fifteen minutes. Dante remained for forty-five. He asked about the photographs on my wall, which couple was my favorite. I pointed toward Miriam and Walter, two widowed seventy-two-year-olds who had spent three years arguing in the same bookstore before either admitted they were waiting for the other to arrive.
“Why did they need you?” Dante asked.
“They did not need an introduction. They needed permission to believe life had not ended.”
“Did you give it?”
“I reminded them permission was theirs.”
His eyes moved from the photograph to me. “You believe that for everyone except yourself.”
My hand went still around my coffee cup. “We are discussing your case.”
“Who was he?”
“Good night, Mr. Varlli.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Good night.”
The following morning, a heating technician arrived before I did. I called Dante immediately.
“You sent someone to repair my radiator.”
“The noise interfered with conversation.”
“You were not invited to another conversation.”
“I assumed there would be one.”
“You do that often.”
“You said the office needed warmth. I said the radiator was trying to escape. It has been contained.”
I should have been angry. Instead, I stood in the newly quiet office smiling before I remembered not to.
Serena Bellini met Dante on Monday in Valyria’s garden. She brought a rosemary plant instead of flowers because Valyria had once mentioned her late husband growing it outside their first apartment. Serena did not perform the gesture. She placed the plant near the kitchen wall and said, “Some things deserve to stay where memory can reach them.”
Valyria’s eyes filled. Rosina looked satisfied. Dante studied Serena with genuine interest. She asked about his redevelopment plans and challenged his decision to replace an old theater with private offices.
“Not everything unprofitable is useless,” she said.
“And not everything old deserves saving,” Dante replied.
“That is what men say when they become impatient with memory.”
Dante laughed. Not the polite breath of amusement he used at breakfast. A real laugh that changed his face and made him look younger.
I wrote high compatibility in the margin of Serena’s file and pressed my pen hard enough to mark the next page.
Bianca Russo’s first meeting took place in the conservatory. She wore a pale blue dress and smoothed the edge of her napkin whenever someone addressed her directly. Dante treated her with a patience I had not seen during Elise’s arguments or Serena’s confident challenges. When Bianca dropped her spoon, Dante picked it up before three members of staff could move.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
“For gravity,” he said.
She smiled despite herself. The meeting softened after that. Then Bianca asked a question that changed the air.
“Does anyone outside your family have access to your private study?”
Dante’s expression did not move. “Why?”
“People depend on knowing where to find you. I wondered whether privacy is possible in a house like this.”
“The study is private.”
“Of course.”
She lowered her eyes. I wrote the question in my notes. Afterward, Bianca avoided looking at me.
That evening, an unknown number sent one sentence to my phone: Stop asking questions about Bianca Russo’s family.
I read it twice. No threat followed. No demand. Just one line from someone who knew I had started looking. I did not tell Dante. I requested an expanded background check instead.
On Friday evening, Bianca’s second preparation session ended shortly after eight. She left pale and distracted, checking the street before stepping outside. I waited ten minutes, locked her file away, and took the rear elevator toward the parking corridor.
A man stood beside the service door. Gray suit. Ordinary face.
“Miss Marchetti. The building is closed.”
“Then schedule an appointment.”
I stepped toward the elevator. His hand closed around my wrist. The speed of it shocked me more than the pain. His thumb pressed into the inside of my arm while four fingers circled the bone.
“Bianca remains in the process. You stop checking her family.”
“Let go.”
“You heard me.”
“And you heard me.” I looked directly at him. “Let go.”
His grip tightened once before releasing. “You are brave because you think Varlli notices who stands near him.”
“I did not mention Dante.”
May you like
“You did not need to.”
He walked through the service door and disappeared. I remained beside the elevator, heart hammering, wrist burning where his hand had been.
