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Yes, working at the palazzo certainly had its benefits, but he had far too much to do to allow himself to be continuously distracted, so, for the last couple of days, knowing his mother was so busy with the final details for the wedding she was unlikely to be at work, he had taken to heading off to the office early, returning home during the long lunch break to meet up with Sophie, who was spending most of her mornings working on Bianca’s dress. He didn’t have to come home, she’d assured him, she was happy to explore Venice on her own if he was too busy, but he was enjoying rediscovering his city, seeing it through her eyes as she absorbed the sights and smells of the city.
The Santoro Azienda offices were a short walk away from the dock. As his parents’ real estate and other business interests had expanded and they had taken on more and more staff it had become increasingly clear they needed professional offices out of the palazzo. The decision to base the offices on the mainland hadn’t been taken lightly, but for the sake of their staff, many of whom no longer lived on the islands, it had made sense and twenty years ago they had moved into the light, modern, purpose-built building. All glass and chrome, it was as different from the palazzo as a building could be.
Until last week Marco hadn’t set foot in the offices in ten years. It was one of the many things he’d regretted since he’d shouldered his father’s coffin to walk it down the aisle towards the altar—and yet he still couldn’t see any other way, how he could have played things differently. It took two to compromise and he hadn’t been the only one at fault.
Marco strode through the sliding glass doors and, with a nod at the security guard and the receptionists, headed straight for the lifts and the top floor, exiting into the plush corridors that marked the Santoro Azienda’s Executive Floor. Left led to his parents’ offices, right to the suite of rooms he was using. He hadn’t turned left once since he’d returned to the building.
He stood and hesitated, then, with a muffled curse, turned left.
His parents had had adjoining offices on opposite corners of the building, sharing a PA, a bathroom and a small kitchen and seating area. He’d been in his teens when they’d relocated here, spending many days in one office or the other being put to work, being trained up to manage the huge portfolio of properties and companies they owned. No one had ever asked him if it was what he wanted. If they had noticed that he was happier rolling his sleeves up and engaging on the ground level, they ignored it. He was destined to take over and his interest in art and antiques, in dealing directly with people, was a quirk, a hobby.
‘A multimillion-euro hobby, Papà,’ he said softly. Not that it would have made any difference.
His father’s name was still on his office door and Marco stood there for a long moment staring at the letters before twisting the handle and, with a deep breath, entering the room. It was a shock to see that nothing had changed, as if his father could walk in any moment, espresso in hand. The desk still heaped with papers, the carafe of water filled on the oak sideboard, the comfy chair by the window, where his father had liked to sit after lunch and face the city while he took his siesta. Photographs covered the walls, views of Venice, of buildings they owned, goods they made, food prepared in restaurants they owned. There were no photographs of Marco or Bianca. ‘The office is for work,’ his father used to say. And work he had, in early, out late, deals and successes and annoyances his favourite topic of conversation over the evening meal.
Marco picked up a piece of paper and stared at it, not taking in the typed words. Was his mother coping, doing the work of two people? She hated delegating as much as his father had, didn’t like handing too much power to people not part of their family.
They were as stubborn as each other.
He barely registered her footsteps, but he knew she was there before she spoke.
‘Marco.’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Hello, Mamma.’
He turned, forced a smile. In the bright artificial office light he could see the lines on her forehead, the hollows in her cheeks. She was working too hard, still grieving for his father.
‘You’ve been home for two weeks and yet I barely see you.’ Her voice might be full of reproach, but her eyes were shrewd, assessing his every expression.
‘I’ve been busy. As have you.’
‘Sì, weddings don’t organise themselves. Maybe you’ll find that out one day.’ She linked her arm through his and gave a small tug. ‘Come, Marco, take coffee with me. Let’s have a proper catch-up.’
Words guaranteed to strike a chill through any dutiful child’s heart. ‘No coffee for me, Mamma. I have a lot to do.’
