Ache For You

19

“Per favore, Signor Rossi, continue in English,” says the marchesa, icy calm. She doesn’t glance at me, but Beans looks as if she’s about to explode with fury. I might not speak Italian, but apparently the dog understands English. If it weren’t for the marchesa’s hand on her back, I’d have a peach furball chewing off my nose.

I narrow my eyes at Beans, she bares her teeth at me, and Signor Rossi grunts in disbelief at my horrible shortcoming.

“Very well. In English, then,” he says, sounding aggrieved. “Let us begin.” He picks up a sheaf of stapled papers and launches into a long and terrifically boring outline of my father’s business holdings, bank accounts, and various other financial instruments and the value thereof, all of which amount to a pittance.

This isn’t news. Though he was an exceptional designer, Papa’s business acumen was for s**t. He was constantly lending cash to people who’d never pay it back, forgetting to pay taxes on time so the fines would be astronomical, and generally failing at managing his money. All he wanted to do was sketch, sew, and design. And though his creations were truly beautiful, he didn’t price them correctly. He felt guilty for making a profit. He was an artist, not a businessman.

Then Signor Rossi says something that almost makes me fall out of my chair.

“Now, turning to the real estate. The house and property were recently assessed at fifteen million euro—”

“Whoa! Back up—did you say fifteen million euro?”

“That’s roughly eighteen million dollars in your American money,” sniffs the attorney.

I make a sound like a cat trying to expel a hairball and look at the marchesa. She gazes back at me in inscrutable silence, the smallest of smiles hovering over her lips.

Her smile doesn’t falter when the attorney adds, “Of course, you can’t sell the property while Lady Moretti is still alive. Without her permission, that is.”

I whip my head around so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off my neck. “What? Me? Sell? Huh?”

Signor Rossi gazes at me over the rim of his glasses and speaks very slowly, as if to someone with limited mental capacity. “Your father left everything to you, Kimber. The business, the investments, Il Sogno—everything. The only stipulation on any of that being that you allow Lady Moretti to stay in the house until she dies, if she so wishes.”

I stare at him for a while, then at the marchesa, who remains undisturbed.

Watching me with those frozen blue eyes, she says calmly, “I would prefer to stay in the house, but if my stepdaughter would prefer I did not, I will move.”

She’s talking to him, but she’s looking at me. Looking right down into the bottom of my soul.

Daring me.

I whisper, “My father left me this house?”

Signor Rossi says, “Yes.”

“But . . . I can’t sell it until she dies?”

“Unless Lady Moretti agrees to leave, which—if I understand her correctly—she will do if you ask her to.”

The marchesa says, “That is correct.”

In her cold smile, I think I see a checkmate.

Damn. I have to hand it to her. That’s a ballsy move.

She knows without my having to say so that I’d never disrespect my father’s wishes. No matter how much I might dislike her, no matter how much I could use the money—fifteen million euro!—I’d never ask her to leave, because he wanted her to stay.

It’s an incredible gamble on her part, but this is one crafty woman. She probably had my number at first glance. She probably saw exactly how this would play out, right down to the next words that leave my mouth.

“If my father wanted you to stay until you die, you’re staying until you die.”

The marchesa’s small smile grows the tiniest bit wider.

Not so fast, WS. “But I can’t guarantee you won’t meet with any unfortunate accidents that might reduce your lifespan by a few decades.”

My feeling of satisfaction at watching her smug smile disappear is one of the highlights of my life to date.

The attorney interrupts our stare-off with a rough throat clearing. “In regard to your father’s business, DiSanto Couture has an excellent reputation for quality. However, based on a review of the books, it’s operating at a loss. It’s not sustainable at current levels of income versus debt, so the obvious course of action is to bring in a buyer.” Signor Rossi glances up from the paperwork. “Unless you’d like to try to take it over and turn it around.”

“No. I’m not staying here. I’ve got to get back to the States.”

He nods. “We’ll find a buyer. I recommend going through the inventory and repricing it to more competitive levels in order to boost the selling price. From what I can see, there’s substantial room for improvement there.”

The marchesa says, “I know someone who will be interested.”

I just bet you do, Cruella.

“Bene,” says the attorney, nodding. Then he looks at me. “That means good.”

“I know what it means.”

He purses his lips as if he doesn’t believe me.

I’m abruptly angry, because massive mood swings are my new normal. “Are we done here? Because I’d like to check into the hotel before dinner.”

Before he can answer, my cell phone rings. I glance at the number, frowning when I see it’s my landlord. “Excuse me for a sec.” I rise, hitting the “Answer” button as I walk from the library into the hallway.

“Hey, Mr. Drummond.”

“Hello, Kimber.”

The man I rent my tiny but horrifically expensive shop from in the Castro district sounds unusually somber, which sets off alarm bells in my head. What time is it in San Francisco, anyway? 6:00 a.m.? I check my watch, and sure enough, it’s just after dawn there.