Chapter 5 - The Name She Was Never Supposed to HearThe name remained in my head long after Detective Brooks ended the call.
Orsino Valcante.
I repeated it silently while sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the pale rectangle of morning light beneath the curtains. Outside, a delivery truck rattled down the street. Somewhere in the house, the refrigerator hummed. Ordinary sounds continued with insulting indifference, as though the world had not just informed me that the man who had helped me might be connected to the scheme that had nearly destroyed my reputation.
I called Detective Brooks back.
She answered immediately.
“Miss Bellafonte?”
“You said Beatrice Nolan named Orsino Valcante.”
“Yes.”
“Did she say what he did?”
“She wrote that she believed he was involved in arranging the theft and the subsequent accusation against you. She did not provide supporting evidence in the email.”
“Then why are you telling me his name as though you've discovered something?”
“Because she also wrote that she was afraid for her life.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Did she mention anyone else?”
“Not in the message we have recovered. We are examining her communications and trying to establish where she went.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
Nonna Celia was still asleep. I could hear her faint breathing through the wall, interrupted occasionally by the cough that had become familiar enough to frighten me more than any sudden noise.
“I'll come to the station,” I said.
“Good. And, Miss Bellafonte?”
“Yes?”
“Don't contact Mr. Valcante until we've spoken.”
I hesitated.
“I understand.”
I ended the call.
For several minutes, I remained motionless.
I wanted to believe there was an innocent explanation. Perhaps Beatrice had misunderstood something. Perhaps someone had used Orsino's name to frighten her. Perhaps the email had been written under pressure, or the person who arranged the scheme had deliberately implicated him to turn me against the one man who could help uncover the truth.
All of those possibilities were reasonable.
None of them made me feel better.
I dressed quickly, prepared a pot of tea for Nonna, and left a note beside her medicine.
When I entered her room to say goodbye, she opened her eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“To speak with the police.”
“About the necklace?”
“Yes.”
She watched me for a moment.
“And the man?”
I pulled the blanket higher over her shoulder.
“What man?”
“The man you have been thinking about so loudly that I can practically hear it through the wall.”
“Nonna, that's ridiculous.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“I am not blushing.”
She smiled.
“Go. And remember that a handsome face is not evidence of a good heart.”
I kissed her forehead.
“I'll try to remember.”
“And eat something. You look like a frightened sparrow.”
I promised I would.
Then I left before she could ask whether Orsino had called.
The police station was crowded when I arrived. A man in a construction uniform argued with someone behind the reception desk, a young mother tried to calm a restless child, and an officer carried a stack of folders through the lobby with the exhausted expression of someone whose day had already gone wrong.
Detective Brooks met me near the entrance to the interview rooms.
She wore the same severe expression as the previous afternoon, but there were shadows beneath her eyes.
“You came quickly.”
“You said it was important.”
“It is.”
She led me into a small room with a table, four chairs, and a camera mounted in the upper corner.
I sat opposite her.
“Before we begin,” she said, “I want to make something clear. Beatrice Nolan's email is an allegation. It is not proof that Mr. Valcante arranged anything.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because she was involved in the attempted framing of an innocent person, and she appears to have believed that Mr. Valcante was connected to it. We need to understand why.”
I folded my hands.
“Do you think he did it?”
Detective Brooks studied me.
“What I think is less important than what we can establish.”
“That sounds like something people say when they don't want to answer a question.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
“Perhaps you and I have more in common than you realize.”
She opened a folder.
“We recovered a partial copy of the email from a server associated with the Bellaverde Hotel. Beatrice wrote that she had been contacted through an intermediary who claimed to represent someone connected to Mr. Valcante.”
“Did she identify the intermediary?”
“No.”
“Did she say she met Orsino?”
“No.”
“Then she may have been lied to.”
“Exactly.”
I leaned forward.
“Someone could have used his name because they knew people would believe it.”
“That's one possibility.”
“Or because they wanted me to stop cooperating with him.”
Detective Brooks looked up sharply.
“Why would anyone want that?”
I thought about the messages.
People who stand beside Valcante eventually discover the cost.
I had not shown Detective Brooks the second message yet. I took out my phone and placed it on the table.
“Because someone has been threatening me.”
She read the messages, then asked me to forward the screenshots to her official contact address.
“Why didn't you mention this yesterday?”
“I received them afterward.”
“Did you tell Mr. Valcante?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't know whether he's involved.”
Detective Brooks nodded slowly.
“That is a sensible answer.”
I almost laughed.
It was the first time anyone had described one of my decisions that way since the wedding.
She continued questioning me for another twenty minutes, then asked me to describe the black sedan I had seen outside my house.
I gave her what details I could remember.
Make, color, approximate size, direction of travel.
I had not recorded the license plate.
I had not taken a photograph.
I had not even thought to check whether the driver was still inside when the car moved away.
I had been too busy convincing myself that I was imagining things.
When we finished, Detective Brooks closed the folder.
“We'll look into it.”
“Will you tell me if you find something?”
“If it relates directly to your safety or the investigation, yes.”
I stood.
“Detective?”
She looked up.
“If Orsino Valcante really did arrange this, I want to know.”
“So do I.”
I left the station feeling no safer than when I had arrived.
At least now my fear had a direction.
I returned home shortly after eleven.
Nonna Celia was in the kitchen, wearing her blue cardigan and stirring a pot of sauce with one hand while holding the edge of the counter with the other.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Nonna.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Don't start.”
“You promised to sit down.”
“I am sitting down spiritually.”
“That doesn't count.”
“It counts to me.”
I crossed the kitchen, turned off the stove, and guided her toward the chair.
She protested for approximately 15 seconds before accepting that I was not going to negotiate.
I prepared lunch while she watched, occasionally correcting my technique despite being seated too far away to see what I was doing.
When we finally sat down, she looked at me over her bowl.
“What did the police say?”
I told her about Beatrice's email, the missing coordinator, and the fact that Orsino's name had appeared in the investigation.
Nonna listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she set down her spoon.
“Do you believe he did it?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you want to believe he didn't?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
The admission surprised me.
I had expected anger, suspicion, perhaps even relief at having a reason to distance myself from a man whose world frightened me.
Instead, I felt disappointed.
That was the part I did not want to examine.
Nonna reached across the table and touched my hand.
“Then you must be careful not to confuse what you want with what is true.”
“I know.”
“And you must be equally careful not to confuse what other people say with what is true.”
I sighed.
“Why does everyone keep giving me wise advice?”
“Because you keep making questionable decisions.”
I laughed despite myself.
For a few minutes, we ate in silence.
Then Nonna asked, “What are you going to do?”
I looked at the telephone beside my plate.
“I think I need to speak with him.”
“Alone?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Good. At least one of us is learning.”
I shook my head.
But by the time lunch was over, I knew what I intended to do.
I would not accept another mysterious delivery. I would not allow an attorney to speak for me when I could ask questions myself. And I would not let someone else's allegation decide whether Orsino Valcante deserved my suspicion.
I would hear his explanation.
Then I would make my own decision.
At 2:17 p.m., I called the number on his card.
His assistant answered.
“Mr. Valcante's office.”
“This is Mireia Bellafonte. I need to speak with him.”
“One moment, please.”
I waited through several seconds of silence.
Then his voice came on the line.
“Mireia.”
He said my name as though he had been expecting it.
“Mr. Valcante.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No.”
The answer seemed to alter something in his tone.
“What happened?”
“Beatrice Nolan sent an email to the police accusing you of being involved in the scheme to frame me.”
Silence.
Not the comfortable silence of a conversation between two people who had run out of things to say.
This was different.
It was the silence of someone receiving information he had not expected.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“Detective Brooks.”
“And what else did she say?”
“That Beatrice disappeared before she could give her formal statement.”
Another pause.
Then Orsino said, “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Stay there.”
My anger rose immediately.
“Don't tell me what to do.”
“I am asking you to remain somewhere you feel safe while I determine whether this allegation is connected to the threats you received.”
“How do you know about the threats?”
“I don't.”
“Then why are you talking as though you know something?”
“Because I have spent most of my life dealing with people who use fear to control others. When someone threatens a woman who has become connected to my affairs, I take it seriously.”
I stood and began pacing.
“I'm not one of your affairs.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you seem to have developed a habit of deciding what happens to me without asking.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“You're right.”
The answer stopped me.
“What?”
“I said you're right. I should have asked before arranging the payment. I should have discussed the legal assistance with you rather than assuming that my intentions were sufficient.”
I had prepared myself for an argument.
I had not prepared myself for an apology.
“I don't know what to do with that,” I admitted.
“You don't have to do anything with it.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Did you arrange the necklace scheme?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Did anyone working for you?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“That isn't the same as no.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn't.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then how am I supposed to know whether I can believe you?”
“You aren't supposed to know yet.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“Believe the evidence, Mireia. Not my reputation. Not Beatrice's allegation. Not my denial. If the evidence shows that I was involved, you should hold me accountable.”
I had never expected those words from him.
Not because I believed powerful men were incapable of honesty, but because I had assumed Orsino would be accustomed to having his word accepted without question.
Instead, he was telling me not to accept it.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked quietly.
“Because someone tried to destroy your life to serve an interest you knew nothing about.”
“And if you discover that one of your associates was involved?”
“Then I will discover how much damage that person has done.”
The calmness of his voice frightened me.
“Orsino.”
It was the first time I had used his first name.
He noticed.
I could hear it in the brief silence that followed.
“Please don't do anything that will make this more dangerous.”
“I will not act without understanding the facts.”
“That sounds like a promise made by someone who doesn't intend to explain the details.”
A faint breath passed through the line.
“You have a remarkable talent for making every reassuring statement sound suspicious.”
“Perhaps you should work on your reassuring statements.”
“Perhaps.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I would like to see you.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Why?”
“To speak in person. No attorneys. No security office. Just a conversation.”
“Where?”
“My office, if you prefer. Or a public place of your choosing.”
I considered the offer.
“Tomorrow morning. A café near the river.”
“Name it.”
“I'll send the address.”
“And Mireia?”
“Yes?”
“Bring someone if that makes you more comfortable.”
I stared at the telephone.
It was the first time he had explicitly acknowledged that I might be afraid of him.
“Thank you,” I said.
When I ended the call, I felt no less uncertain.
But I felt something else, too.
For the first time, I had asked Orsino Valcante a difficult question and received an answer that did not demand my trust.
That mattered.
It did not prove his innocence.
It simply meant that I was willing to hear more.
At 6:30 that evening, Detective Brooks called again.
They had found Beatrice's car.
It was parked near a commuter station outside the city, abandoned with the driver's door unlocked and her handbag still inside.
There was no sign of a struggle.
No note.
No reliable indication of where she had gone.
The detective said the investigation was continuing and asked me to contact the police immediately if Beatrice attempted to reach me.
I promised I would.
Then I sat beside Nonna Celia and watched the evening news without absorbing a single word.
My mind kept returning to the same questions.
Who had hired Beatrice?
Why had someone chosen me?
Why was Orsino's name appearing in a case that seemed designed to hurt his business interests?
And why, despite everything, did I still want to see him?
At 10:03 p.m., my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
This time, the message contained only a photograph.
It showed the entrance to the café I had chosen for the following morning.
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
Beneath it was a single sentence.
You should cancel your meeting with Valcante.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Then I forwarded the message to Detective Brooks.
I did not cancel the meeting.
For the first time since the wedding, I understood that avoiding Orsino might not protect me.
Someone wanted me frightened, isolated, and uncertain about whom to trust.
I was not going to make their work easier.
Tomorrow morning, I would sit across from Orsino Valcante and ask him everything.
May you like
And if he lied to me, I would walk away.
Even if it broke something I had not yet admitted was beginning to matter.
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