Between Loyalty and You

The first time Luca Moretti held me, I was bleeding on his shoes. Black leather. Beautifully polished. I remember them more clearly than the gunshot. That came back later—in dreams, mostly. A sharp crack swallowed by music. Glass breaking. My father’s voice, suddenly louder than I had ever heard. But the shoes were there when my knees gave way. Then Luca was there, too. He caught me before I hit the marble, one arm around my waist, the other behind my head. “Elena.” I looked at the dark stain spreading across my pale green dress. I had spent forty minutes choosing it. “Look at me.” His voice was calm enough that I almost believed nothing terrible had happened. Then his hand pressed against my side. I cried out and caught his wrist. “I know.” He leaned over me. “I know it hurts.” Around us, people scrambled. Someone was crying. “Get the car to the kitchen entrance,” Luca ordered. “Now.” “Where’s Papa?” “He’s safe.” I tried to look past him, but he kept his face in front of mine. “Elena. Your father is safe.” There was blood on his collar. “You’re ruining your suit,” I whispered. “I have others.” Of course, he did. Luca Moretti had a great many things. Restaurants always found him a table. Men who stood when he entered a room. Friends who disliked unexpected visits. My father called him a businessman. Even at fourteen, I had known better. “Your father is going to kill me,” he said. I tried to smile. “You’re the don. Kill him first.” His mouth softened, but his eyes frightened me. I had known him most of my life. I had never seen him afraid. “Stay with me.” “I’m here.” “Tell me about Florence.” I restored paintings there, in a workshop that smelled of solvents and old wood. “There’s a leak,” I murmured. “Above my stove.” “All right.” “My landlord says it’s condensation.” “Sounds like a bad landlord.” “He’s an idiot.” “Tell me his name.” I almost laughed. The pain made the room disappear. When it returned, Luca was closer. “Elena.” I wanted to answer. I was suddenly so tired. His thumb moved against my cheek. “Please.” So I tried. Six hours earlier, my father had been trying to seat me beside a man with a yacht. “His name is Niccolò,” Papa said. “I remember.” “He asked after you.” “He asked whether I was still repairing pictures.” “He was making conversation.” “So was I when I asked whether he was still spending his father’s money.” Papa sighed at his reflection in the hallway mirror. I straightened his bow tie. “You invited me for your birthday. Let me enjoy it.” “I want you to meet people.” “I meet people.” “People who can afford heating.” “My apartment has heating.” “When it works.” I narrowed my eyes. “Did you call my landlord?” “He called me.” “Papa.” “You shouldn’t sleep in a coat.” “It was a cardigan.” At sixty, Matteo Bellini still had the shoulders of the man who carried me upstairs when I pretended to fall asleep in the car. There was more grey in his hair now, and a crease between his eyebrows he blamed entirely on me. He caught my hand. “Stay longer this time.” “I’ve booked my train.” “Change it.” “I have work.” Someone called him from the ballroom. He kissed my knuckles. “No arguments tonight.” “Then stop arranging my marriage.” “I arranged a chair.” “Beside a yacht.” His laugh followed me into the party. By nine, Niccolò had cornered me beside the champagne. He was explaining why buying art was more interesting than making it. I was considering setting off the fire alarm. Then the room shifted. A waiter stepped aside. Two men near the doors straightened. Papa abandoned a conversation. Luca Moretti had arrived. Black suit, white shirt, no decoration beyond a watch. At forty-three, he looked more comfortable in formal clothes than most people did at home. Papa crossed the room and embraced him. For a moment, Luca looked ordinary. Then his gaze moved to the exits. “Your father has interesting friends,” Niccolò murmured. “He says the same about mine.” Niccolò was watching Luca. I escaped. The terrace was cool and quiet. Lemon trees lined the balustrade, and garden lights marked the path toward the gates. I slipped off my heels. “You’ll cut your feet.” I turned. Luca stood in the doorway with a glass of water. “Does everyone report directly to my father?” “Except me.” “Of course. You’re management.” He glanced at my shoes. “Bad choice?” “Beautiful choice. Poor engineering.” His mouth almost curved. He offered me water. “I have a drink.” “That one’s flat.” I exchanged glasses. “Thank you.” Inside, Papa laughed. I could have recognized it anywhere. “He’s happy you came,” Luca said. “Unhappy I’m leaving.” “Both can be true.” “You could tell him Florence isn’t another continent.” “I have.” “And?” “He told me to mind my business.” “Did you?” “No.” I smiled. “Are you still working on the altarpiece?” he asked. “You remember?” “You showed your father photographs at Christmas.” “You were on the phone.” “Some of the time.” I rested my elbows on the balustrade. “We found an earlier layer beneath the blue. Original red drapery.” “Can you bring it back?” “Some. Removing too much would damage what’s underneath.” The door opened. “Luca.” A broad man waited inside. His eyes flicked toward me. “I’ll be there in a moment, Marco.” The man withdrew. I picked up my shoes. “You don’t have to stay on my account.” “I know.” I had no answer to that. He held the door while I put my heels on. As I passed, one caught beneath the threshold. His hand closed around my elbow. “Poor engineering,” he said. I laughed. Later, it would be the last moment I remembered easily. The cake arrived at ten. Papa protested the candles, though their absence would have offended him. I stood beside him as he raised his glass. “To the people who stayed.” Across the table, Luca raised his. I knew pieces of their history. A business started when they were young. A debt Papa never explained. A scar on Luca’s shoulder neither discussed. Their friendship had outlasted my parents’ marriage and almost everything else in Papa’s life. “To the people who stayed,” Luca repeated. “And my daughter,” Papa added, “who might consider staying until Tuesday.” I kissed his cheek. “Nice try.” The staff began cutting the cake. I moved aside for an elderly aunt. Near the service entrance, a waiter stood still. That caught my attention. Everyone else was moving. He looked past me toward Papa. Then Luca said my name. Sharply. The waiter reached beneath his jacket. For one confused second, I thought he was holding a phone. Luca was already moving. A crack split the room. Something struck my side hard enough to turn me. I reached for the table and missed. I woke to an electronic beep. My mouth tasted stale. When I tried to move, pain tightened beneath my ribs. “Easy.” A nurse appeared beside me. “You’re in hospital, Elena. You’ve had surgery.” “Papa?” “I’ll get him.” I looked at the tube in my hand. Remembered green silk. Then Luca’s voice. Please. Papa hurried in and stopped when he saw my eyes open. “Oh, sweetheart.” His face crumpled. He kissed my forehead, carefully avoiding my side. “Don’t,” I whispered. He pulled back. “Did I hurt you?” “No. Don’t look like that.” His laugh broke halfway through. He sat and held my hand, asking whether I was cold, thirsty, hurting. I let him. Through the window at the door, I saw Luca speaking to a doctor. He still wore his shirt from the party. Blood marked one sleeve. “What happened?” I asked. Papa’s grip tightened. “We’ll talk when you’re stronger.” “Was anyone else hurt?” “No.” I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Luca was inside. He and Papa exchanged a look I couldn’t read. “I’ll get the nurse,” Papa said. “She mentioned water.” “There’s water here.” But he was leaving. Luca remained at the foot of the bed. Without his jacket, he looked exhausted. A dark scrape marked his jaw. “You should have someone look at that.” “It’s a scratch.” “That sounds like something men say before an infection.” His mouth moved slightly. I glanced at his sleeve. “Those shoes are probably finished, too.” He lowered his head and breathed out, almost laughing. When he looked up, his eyes were bright. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t shoot me.” “No.” “Then don’t.” He indicated the chair. “May I?” I nodded. “You asked about Florence,” I said as he sat. “Do you remember?” “Yes.” “My landlord really is an idiot.” “I believe you.” I swallowed. “Did I say anything else?” “You asked for your father. Complained about my suit.” “That sounds right.” “And you stayed awake as long as you could.” I looked at his hands. He had washed them, but a faint red line remained beside one thumbnail. I reached across the space between us. He watched my hand settle over his. “Thank you.” His fingers moved beneath mine, then went still. Outside, Papa spoke to the nurse. Luca gently withdrew his hand. He stood before the door opened. I told myself he was making room for my father. At the time, I had no reason to think anything else.