Page 21 of Greed


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Inside the shallow entryway, I pause to offer a small prayer. Not to God—he doesn’t seem to want any part of my dilemma—but to my parents,to my mother, who I hope will forgive me for what I’m about to do. In my shoes, she would do the same thing. At least that’s what I tell myself when my conscience pricks sharply. Although it never dulls the pain.How can it?

When I sign those papers today, I’ll be spitting on the graves of my ancestors. With a simple stroke of the pen, I’ll convey more than three centuries of my family’s blood, sweat, and tears to a stranger.

A stranger.

I still don’t know the identity of the buyer. Attorney Moniz has been dealing with the representative of a trust.The Iberian Trust.But someone’s hiding behind that trust—that’s for damn sure.

The bile rises in my throat as I imagine the possibilities. In truth, a complete stranger is preferable to some of the alternatives my mind conjures.

I shove the cap and sunglasses into my tote, but I don’t bother to even finger-comb my hair. Who cares if I look like hell?Nobody. In less than an hour, I’ll be nothing more than a tragic footnote in the history of the region.

When I step into the lobby, a young woman in a smart blue dress is at the reception desk. I don’t remember her, but it’s been six years since I was last here.Shortly after my eighteenth birthday.I’m sure a lot has changed.Like I have.

She looks up as I approach. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. I have an appointment with Attorney Moniz. Daniela D’Sousa,” I add, just above a whisper, as though my name alone might summon demons from the rafters.

“Of course, Ms. D’Sousa,” she says kindly. “He told me to send you right up when you arrive. Do you know where his office is located?”

“Is it still at the top of the staircase, across from the library?”

“Yes.” She nods, adjusting the brooch on her silk scarf. “I think he might still be on a call, but if the door is open, go right in and take a seat.”

I turn toward the stairs, but a sense of unease stops me in my tracks. “Is Attorney Moniz alone?”

Moniz assured me the buyer wouldn’t be here.“It’s too early for the civilized to do business, and it will be easier for you this way.”But circumstances can change, and I don’t want to be caught off guard.

“At this hour?” The receptionist’s blonde head bobs up and down as she smiles reassuringly. “Can I bring you some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be wonderful. Thank you.”

I breathe a small sigh of relief and find the stairs. Pedro Moniz, my father’s lawyer and old friend, made this long, tortuous process, mired in arcane Portuguese property law, as easy as possible for me.

Although there was nothing he could say or do to blunt the heartache.

The paintings in the stairwell are the same ones that have hung here since I was a child. The Douro Valley’s most important churches, port houses, and vineyards captured on canvas for all to admire.

I squeeze the railing and lower my gaze before I get to the painting of Quinta Rosa do Vale.

It’s a stunning piece of art, painted right before harvest, when the grapes were plump, their purple skins pulled tight over the sweet flesh.

I can’t bear to look at it.

One foot in front of the other, Daniela. It’s almost over.

When I reach the top, Moniz’s door is open, but the lights are off. Apart from the hissing and groaning of a radiator awakening, it’s quiet.Too quiet.

Maybe he’s finished with the call. Or perhaps he’s taking it from one of the other rooms.

The receptionist said to go in and have a seat.

I clutch my tote and step timidly across the threshold into the dark office. At first, it appears I’m alone. But as my eyes adjust, I notice a man at the window in the far corner of the room. He’s gazing at the sunrise with a phone to his ear.

As the shadowy figure comes into focus, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Even with his back to me, even in the dim light, even after all this time, I recognize him immediately.

A warning blares inside my head, and I turn to flee. But the doorway is blocked by the man who sat behind me on the plane—the hulking giant who looks like he plays American football for a professional team.

I can’t breathe.

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