The east wing comes first because that’s where they put me. “Put” is the correct word. One doesn’t arrive in a wing like this. One is installed.
My room is large enough to suggest generosity and positioned well enough to suggest surveillance. Two tall windows face the gardens. One door opens into the corridor. Another into a sitting room no one has used in years, judging by the smell of polish, paper, and old restraint. A smaller service door sits beside the wardrobe, locked from the other side.
Naturally.
I check it three times the first morning. Not because I expect it to open. Because locks have personalities. Some are stubborn. Some are ornamental. Some are political.
This one’s old, iron, functional, and frequently used by someone who doesn’t think of it as a barrier. The scratch marksaround the plate are low and diagonal. Staff height. Staff hurry. Not guards.
Good.
There are six possible exits from my room if I’m optimistic. Door. Sitting room. Windows. Service door. Chimney, if I’m willing to die dramatically and covered in soot. Wall panel behind the writing desk, which turns out not to open but absolutely should, given the general atmosphere of the place.
The first day, I do very little. This is intentional. People expect grief to reduce a woman. They expect her to sit by windows, refuse food, sleep badly, perhaps touch black fabric with trembling fingers. They expect softness because it’s easier to guard than strategy.
So I give them enough softness to make everyone comfortable. I sit near the window. I don't cry. I refuse breakfast, then eat bread when Teresa remains in the room long enough to make refusal inefficient. I hold a cup of coffee until it goes cold. I ask for nothing dangerous.
Water. Black coffee. A needle and thread. Books.
The books arrive in under twelve minutes. That tells me the request goes through one person. Teresa. Not Alessandro.
If it had gone through him, it would’ve taken longer. Not because he’s slow, but because men like him prefer decisions to leave fingerprints only when it’s useful.
Teresa brings three books herself. One on Italian history. Another on Catholic funerary rites. The third a very dull volume on public holdings connected to the Vitale family, which is either an insult or a test. Possibly both.
“I wasn’t aware I looked bored enough for finance,” I say.
Teresa sets the stack on the table. “You asked for books.”
“I was hoping for something with a plot.”
“Men with money are the plot.”
“Does the house have a library?”
“Yes.”
“Am I permitted to use it?”
She meets my eyes. “You’re permitted to ask.”
“How generous.”
“This house is known for restraint.”
“I noticed.”
She leaves, and I pick up the top book. I check the publication date, the marginalia. Pages more worn than others. Spine stress. Inserted papers. Any sign it has been handled recently. Nothing obvious.
Then I read.
The Vitale family owns shipping interests through three layers of legitimate companies, two charitable trusts, and one educational foundation that appears to do nothing except host dinners where men in expensive suits pretend philanthropy has invoices.
Boring, but useful. I make no notes. Not on paper—paper can be found. Instead, I build a room in my head and put the information inside it. Father taught me that before I knew what he was teaching. Memory palaces are for scholars and criminals. The difference is usually just lighting.
But this house requires a better model than memory.
So I begin with movement. Staff first. Staff are more honest than guards. Guards think stillness is discipline. Staff understand that survival requires motion.
