Chapter 11
The second compartment opened only when the Saint Lucia medal was pressed against the silver cap.
A tiny internal spring released.
A narrow strip of magnetic tape slid into Giulietta’s palm.
Her mother.
Again.
Always a voice waiting inside something men thought belonged to them.
They returned to Saint Helena.
The machine accepted the tape.
Lucia’s voice emerged.
Older.
Ten years after the fire.
“Giulietta is fifteen now.”
Giulietta closed her eyes.
Her mother knew her age.
Of course.
“Margaret showed me a photograph.”
“She has Vittorio’s eyes when angry.”
Cesare almost smiled.
Giulietta did not.
Lucia continued.
“I watched her once from across the street.”
Giulietta’s breath stopped.
“When?”
“She was leaving school.”
The memory came.
A woman in a dark coat across the road.
Giulietta had noticed her because she stared too long.
She had forgotten.
Lucia.
Her mother had seen her.
Not approached.
The pain was almost unbearable.
Lucia continued.
“I wanted to cross.”
“I didn’t.”
“Because love does not give me the right to bring danger back into her life simply because I miss her.”
Giulietta looked toward Margaret.
She was crying silently.
Then:
“Vittorio met me tonight.”
“He asked me to come home.”
“I almost did.”
Silence.
“He still smells the same.”
A tiny laugh.
Giulietta covered her mouth.
Then Lucia’s voice hardened.
“But Samuel works for him.”
“Vittorio says he uses Samuel to protect Giulietta.”
“He says enemies cannot surprise him if Samuel hears them first.”
“I told him fear has made him confuse surveillance with love.”
Cesare looked down.
Lucia continued.
“Vittorio asked me what I wanted.”
“I told him: Samuel gone.”
“He said no.”
The word echoed.
“Not because he loves Samuel.”
“Because he loves knowing.”
Giulietta understood her father too well.
Knowing.
Control.
The illusion that enough information made loss impossible.
It had not saved Lucia.
It had not saved him.
Lucia continued.
“Samuel told me something after Vittorio left.”
“He said the Hale marriage will matter one day.”
Preston looked up.
“Not Warren’s.”
A pause.
“His son’s.”
Everyone froze.
Lucia had predicted Preston marrying—
Giulietta?
Ten years earlier?
Impossible.
She continued.
“Samuel says Preston will eventually be brought toward Giulietta.”
Giulietta stared.
“Not because Warren plans it.”
“Because the person above Samuel wants Hale and Marconi joined.”
The room became cold.
Margaret whispered:
“I never heard this.”
Lucia continued.
“I asked why.”
“Samuel laughed.”
“He said: ‘Because the next war needs one house, not two.’”
Giulietta looked at Preston.
Their relationship.
Their engagement.
Their wedding.
Was it engineered years before they met?
Lucia continued.
“Samuel would not name the architect.”
“But he said one thing.”
“Giulietta already knows him.”
Everyone stared.
Cesare.
Lorenzo.
Warren.
Someone inside her life.
Lucia:
“If my daughter hears this someday, do not let her assume the oldest man is the mastermind.”
Margaret almost laughed through tears.
Lucia knew.
“Men like Warren are loud in their control.”
“Men like Samuel enjoy being clever.”
“The dangerous one is the person who benefits when both appear guilty.”
Giulietta looked around.
Who benefited?
The wedding connected Marconi and Hale.
If marriage succeeded, one house.
If it collapsed violently, war.
Either outcome useful to someone.
Lucia’s recording continued.
“I am going to meet Samuel tomorrow.”
“If I return, Margaret burns this.”
“If I don’t…”
A pause.
“…look at the man who introduced Preston Hale to Giulietta Marconi.”
The tape ended.
Silence.
Giulietta’s mind moved backward.
She had met Preston eighteen months ago at a winter fundraiser.
Not through Warren.
Not Cesare.
Not Lorenzo.
The introduction had been casual.
A man approached with Preston beside him.
“Giulietta, you remember Preston Hale.”
She had not.
The man laughed.
“Then I finally made one useful mistake.”
Giulietta remembered now.
Her father’s oldest friend.
One of the few men allowed to remain neutral after Vittorio died.
Dominic Vane.
Sixty-four.
Retired capo.
Godfather to Giulietta.
The man who kissed her cheek that morning before the wedding and told her:
“Your mother would have liked him.”
Giulietta went still.
Cesare saw it.
“Who?”
She whispered:
“Dominic.”
Lorenzo’s face changed.
Margaret asked:
“Dominic Vane?”
Warren cursed.
Preston frowned.
“Who is he?”
Warren looked at him.
“The man who arranged our first dinner with the Marconis.”
Giulietta stared.
Their families had not drifted together naturally.
Dominic had been placing them in the same rooms.
Slowly.
Years.
“Where is Dominic now?”
Lorenzo reached for his phone.
Then stopped.
His expression became dark.
“What?”
“He left the wedding before the suite incident.”
“When?”
“Eleven minutes before.”
Giulietta felt cold.
“Why?”
“No one knows.”
She stood.
The wedding had not been her trap.
Not entirely.
Someone had been waiting for Preston to reveal his violence.
Waiting for Warren’s secrets to open.
Waiting for Giulietta to drag every old ghost into one room.
May you like
Dominic had not interrupted any of it.
He had let her do the gathering for him.
