The Don's Secret Heir

Chapter 13: What He Said at the Gala

Valentina POV

"You made a mistake coming here," Marco said. His voice was low and calm. It was the kind of voice that did not need to be loud because the words were strong enough on their own.

I kept my face still. "Did I?"

"NOIR DONNA." He said the name of my business like he already knew everything about it. "Four years in Milan. It looks very clean on paper." He paused. "But every door in this city is going to close on you. I want you to know that before you spend money on meetings that will never happen."

I looked at him. I really looked at him, the way I had not allowed myself to do from across the room. He believed every word he was saying. That was the thing about Marco. He was never mean just for fun. He was simply very sure of himself, and that was its own kind of mean.

"Enjoy tonight," he said. "It is the last Ricci party you will ever attend."

I let a moment pass. I did not do it because I needed time. I did it because I wanted him to sit in the silence for a second.

"I did not come here for you," I said.

Then I turned and walked away.

I did not walk fast. I did not walk slow. I walked at the same pace I used when I came in. My heels were steady on the stone floor. My chin was up. I acted like the talk was just a small problem in a good evening. I felt his eyes on my back the whole way across the room.

I did not turn around.

Edoardo found me near the drinks table. He was looking at his phone.

"How did it go with the Ricci man?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

He accepted that. He was a good business partner because he knew when to stop asking questions.

I stayed for twenty more minutes. I spoke to two more people. I gave my card to one of them. I made a note to talk to the other one later. I was there. I was professional. I did not look toward the window where Marco had been standing.

When I finally went to the porch for some air, I thought I was alone.

"The view is better from the left side."

I turned.

A man was leaning against the stone railing. He had a glass of red wine. He looked like he was sorry for interrupting me. He was tall and thin. He had a face that was easy to look at, but not a face you would remember right away. He pointed toward the far end of the porch.

"The garden lights come on at nine-thirty over there. Someone told me. I have been waiting."

"Has it been worth it?" I asked.

"Not yet." He smiled. It was a real smile, not a fake one. "Renzo Caruso. I sell art in Milan. Mostly for private buyers."

"Valentina Greco."

"I know who you are," he said simply. He was not trying to be extra nice. "Your autumn clothes were in the newspaper last month. The silk jackets. I almost talked a client into buying two of them."

"Almost?"

"She bought a painting instead. That was better for my pay," he said with a shrug. "I will make it up to you at your next show."

I looked at him for a moment. He was not nervous. He was not trying too hard. He was just standing there on a porch in Florence. He was making easy talk like he had nowhere more important to be.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a card.

"If your client changes her mind," I said.

He took it. He looked at it and put it in his jacket pocket. He did not make a big deal out of it. "I will be in touch."

"You can try," I said.

He smiled again. I went back inside.

The car came at ten-fifteen. Edoardo talked the whole way to his hotel. He talked about the people he met and the deals that looked good. He talked about a meeting he wanted to have in the morning. I said the right things. Yes. Good. Let me know what he says.

He got out at his hotel. The driver kept going.

I sat back in the seat. I watched the city go past the window. Florence at night looked nothing like Milan. It looked older and heavier. It felt like the streets were carrying a lot of weight. I had forgotten that about this city. Or maybe I just did not want to remember.

The car stopped at a red light.

My hand moved to my coat pocket.

I do not know why I did it. I was not thinking about it. My hand just went there. Hands go to things they know without being told. I did not take anything out. I just rested my fingers against the cloth. I felt the shape of what was inside.

It was something folded. A small piece of paper.

The light changed. The car moved.

I sat there with my hand in my pocket. I watched the streets of Florence go past. I thought about Marco’s face. I thought about him saying every door in this city would close on me. He was so sure. He was so confident that he could still tell me what to do.

Few years ago, he could have done that.

The car turned onto the road toward my hotel.

I pulled the paper out.

It was a drawing of a boat. It was leaning to one side. The waves were too big. There was a stick figure at the wheel. The person had a hat that was added at the last second. I remembered watching him draw it. He made a quick line with the pencil. He thought the hat was very important.

For when we go to the sea, Mamma.

I held it the rest of the way to the hotel. I did not fold it back up. I just held it flat in my hand. I looked at it under the streetlights we passed. I thought about my five-year-old boy. He had never asked a single question about his father. He just drew boats and brought them to me. It was like they were answers to questions I had not even asked yet.

The car stopped.

The driver said we had arrived.

I folded the drawing carefully. I put it back in my pocket and got out.