I close the ledger stand abruptly. My chair scrapes the floor sharply and I don’t bother to push it back in. I’m already halfway out the door. I have to see her. It's a decision borne out of necessity.
She’ll be in her room. I know her routine. I’ve memorized the sound of her door opening in the quiet hush of morning, the soft padding of her feet on the rug-lined floor. Breakfast by eight. She barely eats, but she sits there anyway, fingers curled tight around her spoon, responding to me with polite signs and never meeting my eyes.
At a quarter past eight, she leaves the table. Always. She walks the east corridor for exactly fifteen minutes. I watch from the window of my study sometimes, behind the sheer linen curtains, catching glimpses of her figure as she glides past the arched glass panels. Then she disappears into her room. She stays there until noon, reading. Then at noon, she proceeds to the garden.
I walk out of my study, my steps determined. I walk down the west hallway, the one lined with ancestral portraits. Past the twin marble busts of my grandfather and his brother, both silent sentries who never seem to blink. Then through the main gallery, where the light spills in from the high glass ceiling. I make a left at the gallery.
I climb the grand staircase, hand trailing along the banister. The landing splits off in two directions. I veer left, toward the wing I had restored for her, the one overlooking the garden. The door at the end of the hall is hers.
I slow as I approach.
My heart should not be thudding like this. I’m not a man prone to nerves, but my palms are clammy, my throat dry. I stop just before I reach the door. The air is scented faintly with lavender and some kind of citrus soap she uses.
I don’t raise my hand to knock. I hover. My fist curls in. Then slowly uncurls again.
I hear the frenzied thudding of feet, and my concern is immediately piqued. But before I can do something irrational like bust the door open, I hear a voice—Maria’s. It's giddy. I hear her clear voice. “Signora, no, you didn’t—oh, Dio, you did!”
There's a muffled gasp and a bout of giggles from Maria.
My heart stops. She's conversing with Liliana. She's happy, and her happiness doesn't include me. Then, just as my heartrhythm starts to reinvigorate, I hear a sound. It's a strained, whispery sound of amusement that resembles a strangled hum. It's Liliana. It barely escapes her throat, but it’s laughter, in whatever form she can manage.
Something twists in my chest. I press my hand flat to the wall beside her door. She’s laughing. Not with me. I'm not the one that draws it from her. But she’s laughing.
I should be happy. I should be relieved she’s found her footing here. I should be glad that she’s comfortable enough to make this place her home. But I'm not. Because I'm not the reason her face lights up.
But there's the luxury of time. And I'll give it to her. I'll wait. I'm a patient man. Hadn't I told her so myself? Even if it takes a torturous amount of time, I'll ease my love into her life, until she feels complete with it.
I don't intrude. I step back from the door. I turn on my heels and walk back in the direction I'd come from.
I make my way back to the study, slower this time. There’s a restlessness in my chest I can’t quite smother. I close the door behind me but don’t sit immediately. I just stand there, my hand still on the knob, eyes trained on the room like maybe she’ll appear here instead. Like she followed me.
Of course she didn’t. She has me out here acting like a lovesick fool.
When I finally sit, it’s not out of desire, but necessity. There’s work to be done. I try to read through the report with difficulty and deliberate effort. I pick up my pen, sign where I’m meant to. My pen moves over the pages with practiced ease.
Then, I send two follow-ups to Matteo about the Moroccan discrepancies, and note a reminder to restructure how we handle dock tax compliance at the southern ports. But none of it sticks. Not really. My head isn’t in the pages. But I get lost in the practiced routine.
I’m finishing the last page of the shipment summary when I hear a knock.
For a moment, just a reckless, desperate second, I hope it’s her.
“Come in,” I say gruffly.
I look up just as Tomasso opens the door. He steps in with the usual air of amusement, a folder under one arm, his tie slightly askew like he’s been celebrating already.
He catches the disappointed look on my face and grins. “What?” he asks, grinning. “Were you expecting someone else?”
I say nothing. He tosses the folder on my desk, unbothered.
“The Belgian deal went through. Smooth. Cleaner than expected, actually. The margins are better than we projected. Yoursupplier came through. They’re asking to lock in the next two quarters.”
“Good,” I mutter, flipping the folder open though I don’t read it.
He sets the folder down, straightens a bit, and scratches his jaw. He studies me for a second before adjusting his stance. “Listen, Gio, there’s someone at the gate.”
My head snaps up.
“I saw him on my way in. He says he’s here for Liliana.”
