Six. None of them helpful.
The house is quiet in the way it becomes before something irreversible happens. I’ve learned its silences. Morning silence is logistical. Afternoon silence is political. Night silence is predatory.
This one’s expectant.
I hate expectant silence. It makes me feel like the walls have purchased tickets to a show.
I look down the corridor. No Luca. No guard at the turn. No Teresa hovering with tea and plausible deniability. No one.
Which means either the estate has briefly forgotten how surveillance works, or someone has decided I should find this door exactly like this. Possibly Teresa. Possibly Alessandro. Possibly the house itself, which has always been terrible at keeping secrets and excellent at pretending otherwise.
I should walk away. That’s the intelligent option. Pregnancy has made walking away more appealing in theory. One grows protective instincts, apparently. Very inconvenient. The body begins whispering things likedon’t go in thereandperhaps we should sit down and have a cracker instead of antagonizing criminal empires. The body lacks ambition.
I turn the handle. The door opens without a sound. Of course. Even the hinges are complicit.
Alessandro’s office is empty. That’s the second warning. His study is where men are summoned. His rooms are where control becomes private.
His office is different. Smaller. More functional. Fewer rituals. No candied orange peel. No staged austerity. Just a desk, locked cabinets, an inner wall of shelves, two lamps, and the smells of paper, leather, smoke, and cold discipline.
A room built for records. Records are how men confess when they think no one will read them.
I step inside and close the door behind me. Not fully. Enough to hear the corridor. Enough to pretend I still have a choice.
There are four exits in this room. Door behind me. Window to the terrace. Inner records closet. Service panel near the bookshelves, likely locked from the other side.
Four. I count them twice.
Then I move. The desk is clear except for a blotter, two pens aligned perfectly, and a single leather folder placed at the far left corner. I stare at it. No markings. Dark leather. Old. The kind of file that has been handled often enough to soften at the spine but not enough to lose shape.
I don’t touch it immediately. I look at the drawers instead. Top left locked. Top right unlocked. Lower left locked. Lower right slightly open.
That’s almost insulting. A trap should at least try to be elegant.
I crouch carefully, which is now a process requiring planning, attempted dignity, and mild resentment. The lower drawer slides open with one finger.
Inside: files arranged by date. Council minutes. Old. Archived.
Not current enough to be watched?
No. Everything here is watched.
Then why…
I stop.
Because one file is angled slightly forward. Not enough for a careless person. Enough for me.
Date. The night my father died.
My lungs stop working for one clean second. Then they don’t want to start again. Then they resume under protest.
I look toward the door. Still quiet. Too quiet.
I take the file. It’s heavier than it should be. Paper always is, when it has already decided to change your life.
I carry it to the desk and open it. The first page is formal.
Council session. Emergency sitting. Attendance recorded. Alessandro Vitale. Salvatore Ricci. Marco Benedetti. Giulio Marchetti. Others.
