Bianca Marchetti
1759 Words
The boutique was one of Valentina’s favorites — small enough to feel curated, large enough to get properly lost in, with the kind of unhurried elegant atmosphere that made spending money feel like a reasonable decision.
She positioned herself outside the dressing room with the authority of someone running an operation and began working through the rack she had assembled.
“How’s this?” Sofia appeared in the doorway.
Valentina looked up.
The burgundy dress fit like it had been made with Sofia specifically in mind. The color did something extraordinary to her complexion and the cut — simple, clean, nothing overdone — managed to look both effortless and devastating simultaneously.
Valentina stared at her.
“What?” Sofia looked down at herself. “Is it bad?”
“Sofia.”
“What?”
“You look—” Valentina gestured broadly at the entirety of her. “You look like that.”
Sofia looked uncertain. “Like what?”
“Like someone who should not have been hiding in beige for eight years. Like someone who walked into a room and the room noticed.” Valentina sat back. “We’re getting it.”
“Valentina it’s probably expensive—”
“We’re getting it.”
“I haven’t even looked at the—”
“We are getting it.”
Sofia looked at herself in the mirror mounted on the dressing room wall. Something moved across her face — quiet and private and almost immediately contained. The particular expression of someone surprised by their own reflection.
She was twenty three years old and still sometimes looked genuinely startled by the fact that she was beautiful.
It made Valentina want to go back in time and have words with everyone who had ever made this girl feel invisible.
Including, she thought with a familiar complicated feeling, her own brother.
“Okay,” Sofia said quietly. “We’ll get it.”
“And the green one—”
“Let’s not push it.”
“The green one, Sofia.”
“Valentina—”
The collision happened without warning.
One moment Valentina was reaching for the green dress on the rack beside her. The next moment someone came around the end of the aisle moving quickly and with the complete confidence of a person who assumed the space around them was theirs to occupy — and walked directly into Sofia who had stepped out of the dressing room.
The smaller bag Sofia had been carrying dropped. Its contents shifted. Sofia stumbled back a half step.
“Watch where you’re—” the woman started.
And then she straightened.
Valentina looked at her.
She was striking in the way of someone who knew it and had organized her entire presentation around it. Dark hair. Perfect clothes. The kind of polished surface that took significant effort to maintain and was designed to look effortless. She looked at Sofia with the brief dismissive assessment of someone who had decided in a single glance that the person in front of her was not worth particular attention.
“You’re in the middle of the aisle,” the woman said. To Sofia. With the particular tone of someone who had never once considered that they might be in the wrong.
Sofia bent to pick up her bag. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see—”
“Clearly.” The woman looked her over once more. Cool. Final. Already moving on.
Valentina set down the green dress.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The woman looked at her.
“She said sorry,” Valentina continued, in the voice she used when she had decided to be very calm and very clear and neither of those things were actually calm. “You walked into her. The gracious response is to acknowledge that, not to speak to her like she’s inconvenienced you by existing in a shared space.”
Something shifted in the woman’s expression. A recalibration. Her eyes moved from Valentina to Sofia and back again with the quick intelligence of someone rapidly reassessing a situation.
“I wasn’t aware I needed a lesson in grace,” she said smoothly.
“Apparently you do.”
A pause.
The woman looked at Sofia again. Then at Valentina. And Valentina watched the moment she made the connection — the look that moved across someone’s face when they were filing information away. Cataloguing. Reassessing.
“My apologies,” the woman said finally. Smooth and surface level and meaning absolutely nothing. “I’m in a hurry.”
She moved past them and continued down the aisle without looking back.
Valentina watched her go.
Then she turned to Sofia, who was holding her recovered bag against her chest with both hands and wearing an expression of someone who had tried to stand up for herself, found the attempt shut down before it properly started, and was now busy pretending that hadn’t happened.
“You okay?” Valentina asked.
“Fine.” Sofia’s chin came up slightly. “Completely fine.”
“She was rude.”
“Some people are rude.”
“Some people need to be—” Valentina stopped. Refocused. “Who even does that? Walks into someone and then acts like they’re the problem?” She looked back down the aisle where the woman had disappeared around a corner. “Unbelievable.”
Sofia was quiet for a moment.
Then, with the particular careful tone of someone asking a question they want the answer to but aren’t sure they want the answer to: “Do you know who she was?”
Valentina stilled.
She had recognized her. In the moment of the recalibration, in the instant the woman’s eyes had moved between them with that quick intelligence — she had recognized her.
She turned back to Sofia.
“Why?” she asked carefully.
Sofia shrugged. Too casually. “She seemed like she knew who you were. The way she looked at you.”
Valentina considered her options for exactly three seconds.
Sofia was home. Sofia was already carrying things she wouldn’t put down. Sofia was wearing a burgundy dress that made her look like someone who should never have been made to feel invisible and in approximately forty eight hours she was going to sit at a family dinner table and—
“Her name is Bianca Marchetti,” Valentina said.
Sofia’s expression did something careful and quiet. “Marchetti. As in—”
“The Marchetti family. Yes.”
A beat.
“She’s been involved with Luca,” Valentina said. She kept her voice even. Factual. “On and off. More on her side than his, from what I could tell. She’s—” she paused, choosing— “she’s not someone who lets things go easily.”
Sofia absorbed this.
Valentina watched her absorb it and felt the thing she always felt when it came to this particular subject where Sofia and Luca were concerned — a complicated mixture of protectiveness and helplessness and the specific frustration of watching someone you love carry pain they have never once asked anyone to help them set down.
“Okay,” Sofia said.
“Sofia—”
“We should get the green dress,” Sofia said. Brightly. With the precision of someone changing a subject and not caring if it was obvious. “You were right about the green dress. Let’s get the green dress.”
Valentina looked at her for a long moment.
I know, she thought. I know and I’m sorry and I don’t know what to do about any of it either.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Let’s get the green dress.”
They were at the register when Valentina’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at it.
A message from a number she didn’t recognize. Except it wasn’t a number she didn’t recognize — it was a number she recognized completely and had not expected to see.
Her brother did not text her from secondary lines unless something required discretion.
“Who was the woman at the boutique. The one with Sofia.”
Valentina stared at the message.
Then she looked up at Sofia who was carefully folding tissue paper back around the burgundy dress with the focused attention of someone who was thinking about something else entirely and doing a reasonable job of pretending otherwise.
She typed back: Why do you want to know?
The response came in under ten seconds.
“Answer the question Valentina.”
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
“Bianca Marchetti. Why?”
She watched the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then nothing.
No response.
Valentina pocketed her phone and looked at her brother’s future intended — because that was what was coming, she knew it was coming, her father had been moving toward that conversation for months — standing at the register of the boutique.
She didn’t think much of it, because it was honestly none of her business.
Across the city in the back of a black car, Luca Virelli put his phone face down on the seat beside him.
He had sent someone to follow them this morning. Standard. He did it whenever any of them went out — Valentina, his mother, now Sofia. It was not personal. It was protocol. At least that was what he told himself.
Except that the report had come back with a description that had made him set down whatever he was reading and read it again.
A woman. Dark hair. The Marchetti girl. Had walked into Sofia — the name had landed differently than he expected, his Sofia.
He had read the report.
Then he had picked up his secondary line and texted his sister.
Now he looked out the window at Rome moving past the glass and said nothing to the driver and thought about nothing in particular.
Bianca Marchetti.
He picked up his primary phone.
He made a call.
It rang twice.
“Marchetti,” he said, when it connected. Quiet. Unhurried. The voice he used when he wanted someone to understand something without having to repeat himself. “We need to discuss your daughter’s behavior. Today. Before I decide the conversation isn’t worth having.”
He listened.
“Good,” he said.
He ended the call.
He looked back out the window.
Sofia’s face when trying to pretend she wasn’t feeling anything for him— but failing to— appeared in his mind with the uninvited clarity of something that had decided it lived there now.
He put it away.
He did not put it away successfully.
- Writer
