Chapter 2 - The Woman Isabella Was Never Meant to Be
Lorenzo didn’t open the door.
That frightened Meline more than if he had.
She had watched important men become strangely obedient around him. She had seen restaurant owners cross streets simply to shake his hand. She had once watched a furious customer recognize Lorenzo through Hayes Bespoke’s window and immediately lower his voice.
Yet now Lorenzo stared at the stranger in the rain as though calculating consequences.
“Do you know him?” Meline whispered.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
The stranger placed the envelope beneath the brass mail slot, stepped backward, and disappeared into the wet crowd.
Lorenzo waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Only then did he approach the door.
“Don’t.”
He looked at Meline.
“It could be dangerous.”
“It’s paper.”
“People have done worse things with paper.”
His mouth almost curved.
“You really do worry about me.”
“This is not the moment.”
He picked up the envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a single photograph.
Lorenzo’s expression hardened.
“What?”
He handed it to her.
The photograph showed Lorenzo leaving Hayes Bespoke two evenings earlier.
Meline stood inside the shop behind him.
A red circle had been drawn around her face.
Beneath it were the words:
SOME THINGS ARE EASIER TO LOSE THAN OTHERS.
Cold moved through her.
“Who sent this?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not believable.”
“It’s also the truth.”
“You have enemies.”
“Yes.”
“Enough enemies that someone photographing my shop doesn’t narrow the list?”
“No.”
She hated his calmness.
“Fantastic.”
Lorenzo reached for his jacket.
“Close early.”
“No.”
“Meline.”
“No.”
“This isn’t an argument.”
“Everything becomes an argument when somebody tells me what to do in my own shop.”
The door from the basement opened.
Nina appeared holding one spool of black thread as though she had spent twenty minutes mining it from the earth.
She stopped.
“What happened?”
Meline immediately hid the photograph.
“Nothing.”
Nina looked at Lorenzo.
Lorenzo looked at Meline.
“That was convincing,” he said.
Meline glared.
Nina wisely returned downstairs.
Lorenzo called someone.
“Marco. Front of Hayes. Now.”
He hung up.
“You have a Marco?”
“I have several.”
“That sentence is ridiculous.”
“Meline.”
“Stop saying my name like it’s a command.”
“I need you safe.”
Something about the words weakened her anger.
Not enough.
But almost.
A black SUV stopped outside three minutes later.
Lorenzo escorted Meline and Nina to their cars despite Meline informing him twelve separate times that she did not require escorting.
Before she got inside, she caught his sleeve.
“You are not disappearing.”
His gaze dropped to her hand.
“I have questions.”
“I know.”
“And you’re answering them.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
His eyes softened.
“Tomorrow.”
He started to leave.
“Lorenzo.”
He turned.
“Who is Isabella Romano?”
A long pause.
“My attorney.”
Meline stared.
“Your attorney?”
“And occasionally the only person in Boston more irritating than you.”
Meline folded her arms.
“What alliance?”
“Business restructuring.”
“What dinner?”
“With federal accountants.”
The realization hit so hard she felt embarrassed all over again.
“You let people think you were dating her?”
“I don’t correct gossip unless it affects someone I care about.”
Meline glanced toward the photograph.
“Well, congratulations. It affects someone now.”
His face tightened.
He approached until only the car door separated them.
“I should have corrected it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because as long as people believed Isabella mattered to me personally, they weren’t looking at you.”
Meline’s anger disappeared.
Not because the answer comforted her.
Because it made the photograph more frightening.
“They know now.”
“Yes.”
That night Meline slept badly.
At 2:11 a.m., she found herself standing barefoot in her kitchen holding tea she had forgotten to drink.
She replayed Lorenzo’s words.
The lines were for you.
Impossible.
And yet, suddenly six weeks of Tuesdays and Thursdays rearranged themselves.
His inexplicable interest in flower colors.
The afternoon he had asked whether a woman preferred expensive jewelry or something chosen because it reminded him of her.
The day he spent twenty minutes pretending to care about whether handwritten notes were romantic or outdated.
Meline had told him handwritten notes were dangerous.
“Why?”
“Because handwriting proves effort.”
He had looked at her strangely.
The following Tuesday, coffee appeared beside her sewing machine with a handwritten note.
For the woman keeping my shoulders even. —L
She had thrown it away.
Then retrieved it from the trash.
It was still in her desk.
At eight the following morning, Meline opened Hayes Bespoke.
At eight-oh-three, Lorenzo entered.
No entourage.
No dramatic black car waiting visibly outside.
Just Lorenzo.
His ribs were bandaged beneath a black shirt.
Meline pointed.
“What happened?”
“Good morning.”
“What happened?”
“I met a door.”
“Did the door have fists?”
“Possibly.”
She closed the front blinds.
“You have five minutes.”
“Only five?”
“You wasted six weeks.”
He removed his coat.
“Fair.”
Meline stood behind the cutting table like a judge preparing sentencing.
“Start with Isabella.”
Lorenzo leaned against the opposite side.
“My father left a complicated organization.”
“That is the diplomatic description.”
“I’m trying diplomacy.”
“Try honesty.”
He accepted the correction.
“Some businesses are legitimate. Some are not. I’m separating them.”
“You’re walking away.”
“From part of my father’s world.”
“Can you do that?”
His silence answered.
“That photograph came from someone who doesn’t want you to.”
“Probably.”
“And they think hurting me would stop you.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Meline stepped backward.
“This is exactly why whatever you think exists between us cannot.”
Lorenzo’s face became unreadable.
“Meline.”
“No. You want honesty? Fine. I have spent thirteen years building this place. I survived debt, my mother’s illness, my mother’s death, a partner who emptied an account and disappeared, and a landlord who thinks rent increases are a personality trait.”
She swallowed.
“I finally have a life nobody can take from me.”
“I would never take it.”
“You don’t have to. Your world could.”
Lorenzo looked toward the rain-streaked windows.
For once, he had no clever response.
“I understand.”
Meline hadn’t expected agreement.
It hurt more than argument.
He put on his coat.
At the door he stopped.
“You were wrong about one thing.”
“What?”
“You said women like Isabella belong in my world.”
Meline waited.
Lorenzo looked back at her.
“I’m trying to leave that world.”
Then he opened the door.
“And if I ever manage it, the first place I planned to go was here.”
He disappeared into the morning rain.
Meline remained behind the counter.
A moment later, she noticed something sitting where Lorenzo had been standing.
A small folded paper.
Her heart knew better.
Her hand picked it up anyway.
In Lorenzo’s careful handwriting:
Dinner. No lines. No tricks. No Isabella. If you say no, I won’t ask again. Friday, seven.
Below it was one final sentence.
And Meline? Your hands really are beautiful.
She was still staring at the note when the telephone rang.
“Meline Hayes?”
“Yes?”
A woman spoke.
“My name is Isabella Romano.”
Meline straightened.
“We need to meet.”
“About Lorenzo?”
“Yes.”
May you like
Isabella’s voice lowered.
“Because if he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, someone is going to kill him.”
