I don’t rehearse my lines or bargain with shadows. By the time the wrought-iron gates swing open, every cell in me waits, ready to do what needs to be done.
“Signora, we weren’t expecting you,” his housekeeper rushes to me when she receives me at the door.
I smile at her. “I wasn’t meant to be expected.”
She takes my coat and looks toward the study. “He…should I tell him you’re here?”
I shake my head. “Why don’t I surprise him?”
She gives me a look that clearly says what she’s thinking, what I know:Duca Alighieri doesn’t like surprises.
Well, tough shit, Papà, I’m here, and I’m not leaving until we settle a few things.
I pat her shoulder. “It’s going to be alright.”
She grimaces. “If you say so,Signora.”
“Has he had lunch?” It’s past noon, and Papà is a creature of habit.
“Si.” She dips her head. “Just somezuppa. He’s…he’s been quiet since Signor Rinaldi passed away.”
Well, at least he won’t behangryas the Americans like to call it. We Italians simply say it’s time to eat, because for us, hunger isn’t supposed to be emotional (even if it is)—it’s a clock issue.
I cross the hall to his study—a sanctum steeped in the scent of worn leather and history.
Dust motes swirl in a shaft of slanted sunlight that falls across a vast oaken desk, its surface burnished by years of decisive strokes and, I like to think, whispered conspiracies.
The walls, bare of family portraits or flourishes, offer no solace—only rows of unread volumes whose spines creak under their own weight, and chairs carved with spines meant to cow rather than comfort.
I knock on the open door of the study and step in without waiting for an answer.
Papà looks up, and his eyes narrow suspiciously when he sees me.
As the housekeeper said, he isn’t expecting me, didn’t think I’d have the balls to confront him.
But then Papà didn’t raise me as he was too busy with the company, so he doesn’t know me.
I remember what Nico said about Judith.
“She understands that power is something you take responsibility for—not something you apologize for.”
“Alessia,” he murmurs, but doesn’t move from his desk, makes no effort to stand and greet me.
A narrow beam of light from the open sliver of a curtain lances across his face, exposing the sharp angles of cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw.
“Papà,” I greet, sliding into the leather chair across from him.
He laces his fingers, elbows resting on the desk like talons. “Why are you here?”
To take my time and stage the conversation or….
“I hear you’re calling for an emergency board meeting this coming Friday.”Or jump right in.
He levels me with a thoughtful stare.
I inhale slowly, deliberately—so that even my breath betrays no tremor.
“Am I?” he challenges.
