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The receptionist stands to greet us, coming around the desk, almost bowing to me. I guess she knows who pays for her designer suit and shoes.
When I introduce her to Helena in English, she apologizes for speaking Italian and continues in English, telling us that Mr. Gallo will be with us shortly and asking if we’d like something to drink.
“Cappuccino please,” Helena says.
“An espresso for me.” She nods and walks through the door that leads to the small kitchen to work on our coffees.
“This building is amazing.” Helena turns a circle, eyes up, down, every which direction.
“Thank you. We had it reconstructed to look like it did in its early days, and it was a much bigger job than I realized. There was quite some water damage—it renders the first floor almost completely unusable—but the rest of the building is in perfect condition.”
“You own the building?”
I put my finger to her chin to close her mouth.
She clears her throat. “I just don’t even understand how much money that is.”
“It’s important to preserve the architecture of the city. This isn’t only my family’s inheritance. And by that, I mean culturally. The Scafoni family has an obligation to the people of Venice. I take that very seriously.”
“Do you own more buildings here? Is that where Scafoni money comes from?”
“A few and some.” I lead her around.
“Some?”
“Some of our wealth is through real estate. Some…outside of real estate.”
She looks at me suspiciously. “Legal?”
I give her a wide grin.
“Are you like a local mafia family or something?” I think she means it as a joke.
“This way,” I say, not answering.
She seems to understand I won’t be explaining further.
“This building dates back to the fourteenth century, and it was home to the Michiel family for a time.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Venetian nobility.”
“Oh. Are you Venetian nobility too? That’s a stupid question.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I don’t know anything about this. We don’t have this in America.”
He smiles. “No, we’re not nobility. We’re just smart businessmen.”
She studies me, and I wonder what she’s thinking, what she wants to say. She’s clever enough to know that you have to be better than smart to have collected our sort of wealth and power, and that doesn’t always come without darker dealings.
“Why don’t you have an accent when you speak English?” she asks.
“Because I was educated in boarding school in Massachusetts. I only spent summers in Italy.”
“Your brothers too?”
“Yes.”
Before she can ask another question, we’re interrupted. “Sebastian, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
I turn to find Joseph Gallo coming down the stairs. He’s dressed impeccably, as usual. I’ve been working with him since I took over the family after my father died and have known him for most of my life.
I shake his hand, patting his shoulder. “Twice in one week.”
Joseph Gallo handles the Willow transactions. He’s the one I came to see to discuss payments a few days ago.
“A fortunate week,” he says elegantly.
He turns to Helena and takes her in, then holds out his hand. “Miss Willow, I presume.” He doesn’t quite shake her hand but holds one of hers inside both of his and turns to me. “Each generation is more beautiful than the last.”
I catch Helena’s glance. Joseph Gallo handled the details with Libby Willow too.
“Let’s go upstairs. Everything is ready. Should only take a few minutes.”
Her mood soured, Helena walks up the stairs only because of the pressure of my hand at her back. She isn’t even looking around anymore but is instead lost in her own thoughts as we enter Joseph’s office.
“Sit down, please,” he says, gesturing to two large, comfortable chairs before his antique desk.
The receptionist approaches with a tray of coffee for each of us and places a small plate of cookies on the table between our chairs.
Helena leaves hers untouched. I notice how her hands curl around the arms of the chair as she watches Joseph, who casually sips his espresso as he opens the large leather-bound tome before him.
Joseph sets his cup down and looks up at us, smiling as if any of this is normal.
“I don’t know how much Sebastian has explained to you, but I’ll just go through the legalities before you sign.”
“What legalities? There aren’t any. Don’t pretend like this is just a normal, everyday transaction.”
He isn’t ruffled. “We like to keep a recording for the sake of history.”
She raises her head to peek at the book on the desk, and Joseph turns to me.
I nod my head, and he turns the heavy book and sets it at the edge of the desk. She leans forward and looks at the still empty pages where her name is typewritten beneath one of the two lines there. Mine is beneath the other. The paper is specially made for us with our family crest embossed on it. Each page contains a rectangular frame sized for an 8x10 photo.
