Page 38 of Claimed At First Sight

“Father’s waiting in his study.”

I’m used to that sentence by now.

Ever since I assumed control of operations, weekly meetings in my father’s study have become part of the routine.

Warm air rolls over us as we enter the mansion. Cigar smoke, polished wood, old whiskey, and burning pine greet me.

Home. Or as close as I’ve ever allowed myself to define the word.

Staff move quietly through the entrance hall, carrying trays and making final preparations for the ceremony and reception. Christmas garlands wind around the staircase banisters in understated gold and dark green, the same way they have for as long as I can remember.

Remo stands near the security console built discreetly into the wall paneling, a tablet in his hands. The youngest of us has our mother’s eyes and her quiet way of noticing everything before he speaks.

“There was a drone over the south perimeter an hour ago,” he says without preamble. “Probably civilian, but I jammed the signal anyway.”

“Any footage?”

“Already pulled it. The chapel systems are secure too. Facial recognition is active, and I added thermal coverage around the treeline.”

I nod, and he straightens at the approval. Interesting how little things still matter.

“Good work. You’re done with the feeds once the ceremony starts.”

His brows draw together. “Max, I can monitor remotely from my phone.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” I reply. “We have staff for that. You’ll survive one evening without surveillance.”

Rafa claps a hand against the back of Remo’s neck. “Careful. He’ll start twitching.”

Remo shrugs him off. “One day I’m poisoning your food.”

“You’d cry halfway through doing it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

For a second, I almost see the kid Remo used to be, small enough to trail after me through these halls after our mother died because he hated how quiet the estate became at night.

I head deeper into the mansion, my brothers falling into step beside me. The doors to Father’s study stand open, a sign for us to enter.

Low firelight flickers across shelves lined with leather-bound books and decades of accumulated power. Winter light filters through the tall windows overlooking the grounds.

My mother’s portrait hangs above the fireplace.

Celia Marco sits captured in oil and gold leaf, one hand resting against the arm of a garden chair beneath summer sunlight. She looks elegant, calm, and strangely alive.

The house changed after she died. It became darker, more functional. Father stopped opening the curtains as often. The music disappeared first. Then the flowers. Then the warmth.

Remo remembers the least. Father remembers the most. I suspect neither of them ever recovered.

My gaze shifts toward the man seated beside the desk.

Alfonso Marco looks older tonight. Not weak, never that. But age and Parkinson’s have left their mark on a man who once seemed immovable.

His wheelchair sits beside him, though his posture remains straight. Even seated, the room belongs to him.

His eyes settle on me. “You’re late.”

Rafa checks his watch. “He’s three minutes early.”