Chapter 3 - Every Tuesday and Thursday
Meline met Isabella Romano at a coffee shop three blocks from Boston Common.
She arrived expecting silk, diamonds, and arrogance.
Instead Isabella wore navy trousers, flat shoes, a wool coat, and the exhausted expression of an attorney who had spent her morning arguing with rich men.
“You’re Meline,” Isabella said.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I sound relieved.”
“That’s worse.”
Isabella smiled.
“I understand why Lorenzo likes you.”
Meline almost walked back outside.
“Can we discuss literally anything else?”
“Fine.”
Isabella opened a leather folder.
The contents changed everything.
Bank records.
Property transfers.
Shipping companies.
Construction accounts.
Names Meline recognized from Boston newspapers.
“I don’t understand finance.”
“You understand enough to know what this looks like.”
Meline did.
Lorenzo was dismantling something enormous.
“For decades,” Isabella explained, “the Moretti organization operated legitimate companies beside illegal ones. His father maintained the structure because he believed power meant controlling both.”
“And Lorenzo?”
“Lorenzo hates it.”
“People seem frightened of him.”
“They should be when necessary.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Isabella took a breath.
“Lorenzo spent most of his adult life keeping the worst parts of his father’s world from reaching ordinary people. After Alessandro died, Lorenzo inherited enough authority to finally change things.”
“So he’s cooperating with authorities?”
“Carefully.”
“Why carefully?”
“Because organizations built on secrets become dangerous when someone starts opening drawers.”
Meline thought about the photograph.
“Who attacked him?”
“We don’t know.”
“You’re his lawyer.”
“I’m not magic.”
“People keep suggesting you’ll marry him.”
Isabella rolled her eyes.
“My father suggested it once because my father thinks marriages are still arranged beside livestock agreements.”
“And Lorenzo?”
“Laughed for four minutes.”
Meline stared into her coffee.
Something embarrassing warmed her chest.
Isabella noticed.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you’re not relieved.”
“I am not—”
“You are.”
Meline hated lawyers.
Isabella leaned closer.
“Do you know why he started coming to your shop twice a week?”
“For fittings.”
“He owns twenty-three suits.”
Meline blinked.
“That is obscene.”
“Agreed.”
“He said he needed alterations.”
“He gained four pounds after his father died.”
Meline frowned.
“That does not require twelve appointments.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Isabella smiled.
“Because apparently Lorenzo Moretti can negotiate a warehouse contract with six armed men but cannot ask a tailor to dinner.”
Meline sat back.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I’ve watched him rehearse.”
Meline covered her face.
“Oh, God.”
“Do you know he once asked me whether bringing you peonies would seem too obvious?”
Meline lowered her hands.
“I love peonies.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“He researched them.”
“Research?”
“He called three florists.”
Meline began laughing.
She couldn’t stop.
It started quietly.
Then years of disbelief, loneliness, and irritation broke loose at once.
Isabella joined her.
For the first time in months, Meline laughed until her eyes watered.
When she recovered, Isabella’s expression had changed.
“He’s serious about you.”
Meline looked away.
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“No.”
“And you’re asking me to stay away.”
“No.”
Meline turned back.
“I’m asking you to understand the risk and decide for yourself.”
That mattered.
Lorenzo told people what needed doing.
Isabella gave choices.
“What would you decide?” Meline asked.
“I’m not you.”
“Convenient lawyer answer.”
“The honest one.”
Isabella closed the folder.
“But I’ll tell you this. Lorenzo has spent eleven months choosing responsibility over happiness. I don’t know how much longer a person can do that without becoming someone who forgets how happiness feels.”
Meline left the café at noon.
Lorenzo’s invitation remained in her coat pocket.
Friday.
Seven.
For six hours she changed her mind repeatedly.
At six-fifty-three, she stood outside a small Italian restaurant in Beacon Hill wondering if forty-one was too old to run away from a date.
Then Lorenzo opened the restaurant door.
He wore a dark suit.
No tie.
No entourage.
No visible weapon.
His expression when he saw her made every insecurity in Meline’s head briefly fall silent.
“You came.”
“Don’t sound shocked.”
“I was preparing emotionally for rejection.”
“Does Lorenzo Moretti prepare emotionally?”
“Recently.”
She walked inside.
The restaurant was not empty.
That surprised her.
“You didn’t clear it?”
He frowned.
“Why would I?”
“Because you’re you.”
“That answer is becoming exhausting.”
They sat near the window.
For the first twenty minutes, Lorenzo did something Meline had never expected.
He was nervous.
He adjusted his water glass.
Misread the menu.
Nearly knocked over the bread basket.
Meline finally put down her fork.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“That’s adorable.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Never use that word about me again.”
“Adorable.”
“Meline.”
“Extremely adorable.”
He laughed.
The tension vanished.
They talked.
Not about crime.
Not about Isabella.
Not about danger.
Lorenzo told her he had studied architecture for two years before his father called him home.
Meline told him she had wanted to design theater costumes before she inherited her mother’s shop.
“You inherited Hayes?”
“Not exactly.”
She explained.
Her mother had started with one rented sewing machine.
By the time Meline was eighteen, Hayes Bespoke occupied half its current space.
When cancer came, Meline abandoned every plan and returned home.
“I thought temporarily,” she said.
“But?”
“I discovered I loved building things that mattered to people.”
Lorenzo watched her.
“Suits matter?”
“Sometimes.”
“How?”
“A nervous man walks differently when something fits perfectly. A woman going through divorce might stand straighter because the dress reminds her she still owns herself.”
She shrugged.
“Clothes can’t fix a life. But occasionally they help someone face one.”
Lorenzo grew quiet.
“What?”
“That’s why.”
“Why what?”
“Why you.”
Meline’s heart knocked painfully.
“Careful. That almost sounded like another practice line.”
“No practice tonight.”
He reached across the table.
His hand stopped before touching hers.
“May I?”
She looked at him.
Then at his hand.
“See? Six weeks of lessons.”
His smile appeared.
Meline placed her hand in his.
The restaurant disappeared.
She had forgotten how powerful simple touch could be.
No demand.
No possession.
Just warmth.
“Your hands are beautiful,” Lorenzo said.
Meline swallowed.
“You finally found a line that works.”
“It only needed the right woman.”
Outside, across the street, headlights appeared.
A black sedan.
Meline noticed Lorenzo notice it.
His expression changed.
The car remained there.
Engine running.
Lorenzo released her hand.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Meline.”
“No commands.”
He looked frustrated.
Then corrected himself.
“Would you please remain here while I check something?”
“Better.”
He walked outside.
The sedan immediately accelerated.
Lorenzo stepped back onto the sidewalk.
It sped away.
Meline moved toward the window.
Then something white beneath Lorenzo’s chair caught her eye.
An envelope.
Another one.
She picked it up.
Unlike the first, it was old.
Yellowed.
Handwritten.
Across the front were words that made no sense.
LORENZO—IF YOUR FATHER IS DEAD, TAKE THIS TO HAYES BESPOKE. ASK MELINE ABOUT THE BLUE SUIT.
Meline read the message twice.
Then a third time.
Lorenzo returned.
“What happened?”
She handed him the envelope.
His face lost all color.
“The handwriting,” he whispered.
“You recognize it?”
May you like
He stared at her.
“It’s my father’s.”
