Chapter 4 - Six Years of Silence
Camille had spent years imagining what she would say if she ever saw Alessandro again.
None of those imaginary conversations resembled reality.
In some versions she slapped him.
In others she walked past without acknowledging him.
In the cruelest version, Alessandro saw Sophie from across a street, understood instantly, and Camille simply watched him realize what he had lost.
Those fantasies had helped her survive anger she could not safely place anywhere else.
Now Alessandro stood inside Mercer Gallery eating half a croissant Sophie had given him, and Camille found herself facing a possibility far more destabilizing than hatred.
He might have been telling the truth.
That possibility frightened her.
Hatred was clean.
Regret was not.
After Sophie returned to the back office, Camille closed the door to the gallery’s main room.
“Tell me exactly what you remember after the attack.”
Alessandro sat on the edge of a wooden display table.
“Almost nothing for several weeks.”
“You were unconscious?”
“Induced coma at first. Then complications. I woke briefly several times but don’t remember much.”
“When were you fully conscious?”
“Approximately eleven weeks later.”
Camille felt her stomach tighten.
Her final hospital visit had been during that week.
“I was downstairs.”
“I know that now.”
“Vittorio told me you refused to see me.”
“He told me you had already left.”
Camille turned away.
The symmetry of the lie was almost elegant.
That made it more disturbing.
“Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You have enemies.”
“Many.”
“Could someone have wanted to hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not hurt me directly?”
“Because separating us achieved something.”
“What?”
Alessandro looked through the glass wall toward Sophie.
“Maybe they were hiding something larger.”
Camille followed his gaze.
“You think this is about Sophie?”
“I think someone knew she existed before I did.”
“You were in a coma.”
“That explains me.”
He looked back at Camille.
“It doesn’t explain why anybody else cared.”
She sat opposite him.
For the first time in years they spoke without accusation.
Camille described the man who had visited her apartment.
Late forties, maybe fifty.
Gray coat.
Gloves despite mild weather.
American accent, but not New York.
He knew she was pregnant.
He knew where her mother lived in Paris.
He knew the name of Camille’s obstetrician.
He had not raised his voice.
That had been the terrifying part.
“He left an envelope,” Camille said.
“Money?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
“What did you do?”
“Threw it at him.”
A flicker of the old Alessandro appeared.
“Of course you did.”
Camille almost smiled.
“Don’t look pleased.”
“I remember you throwing wine at a count in Florence.”
“He deserved it.”
“He called your painting decorative.”
“It was insulting.”
“It was six feet tall and mostly orange.”
“That is not the point.”
For half a second they were younger.
Then both remembered why they were sitting there.
“What happened to the money?” Alessandro asked.
“He left without it.”
“You kept the envelope?”
“No.”
Camille hesitated.
“But I kept the card inside.”
Alessandro’s eyes sharpened.
“What card?”
“It had one sentence.”
She opened her phone and searched through photographs.
“I photographed it before destroying it.”
She handed him the screen.
The card was cream-colored.
Five words had been typed across the center:
Some inheritances are too dangerous.
Alessandro stared at it.
Camille watched his face change.
“You recognize something.”
“The paper.”
“The paper?”
“My grandfather used stationery like this.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“It was custom-made in Milan. Heavy cotton. Slight blue edge.”
“You can tell from a photograph?”
“I grew up seeing it every day.”
Camille sat back.
“Your grandfather died before we met.”
“Yes.”
“Who inherited his stationery?”
Alessandro did not answer immediately.
“The family office.”
“And who controlled the family office while you were unconscious?”
They said the name together.
“Vittorio.”
Camille closed her eyes.
The answer seemed obvious.
Too obvious.
Alessandro appeared to think the same.
“If Vittorio wanted you gone,” he said, “he could have simply told you I died.”
“That would have been easier.”
“Exactly.”
“He needed me to believe you rejected Sophie.”
“Yes.”
“And he needed you to believe I abandoned you.”
“Yes.”
Camille stared at the forged letter.
“Why make us hate each other?”
“Because hatred prevents questions.”
That sentence stayed in the room.
If Camille had believed Alessandro dead, she might have investigated.
If Alessandro had believed Camille endangered, he would have searched relentlessly.
But humiliation?
Rejection?
Those wounds made people retreat.
Someone had known both of them well.
Too well.
Sophie opened the office door.
“Mom, Mrs. Mercer says the frame people are here.”
Camille stood.
“I’ll be there.”
Sophie looked at Alessandro.
“Are you leaving?”
The question struck him visibly.
“I should.”
“Oh.”
Camille saw disappointment flash across her daughter’s face.
It disturbed her.
Not because Sophie liked Alessandro.
Because the connection had formed before either adult knew who the other was.
No manipulation.
No introduction.
No carefully arranged meeting.
Seat 14A.
Coincidence.
Except Alessandro did not believe in accidents.
Neither did Camille anymore.
“Wait,” she said.
Alessandro turned.
Camille hated herself slightly for the words before saying them.
“Sophie and I are having lunch nearby after this.”
He said nothing.
“You can come.”
Sophie smiled instantly.
Alessandro’s expression softened in a way Camille had never seen from him six years ago.
“I’d like that.”
Lunch was painfully normal.
Sophie ordered grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Alessandro ordered espresso and forgot to drink it because Sophie insisted he help choose names for characters she had drawn.
“This one is a detective,” Sophie explained.
The drawing showed a stick figure wearing an enormous hat.
“What does she investigate?”
“Missing things.”
“What kind?”
“Keys. Dogs. People.”
Alessandro’s expression shifted at the last word.
Sophie noticed.
“You lost somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find them?”
His eyes moved to Camille.
“I think so.”
Camille looked away.
After lunch, Sophie went to wash her hands.
Alessandro leaned forward.
“Who arranged your flights?”
“What?”
“The tickets.”
“My gallery booked them.”
“Who at the gallery?”
“Daniel Mercer’s assistant.”
“Name?”
“Rachel.”
“And the seat change?”
“Airline problem.”
“Maybe.”
Camille frowned.
“You think someone put you beside Sophie deliberately?”
“I think my seat was changed at the last minute and your daughter ended up beside me on the first flight either of us had taken together in six years.”
“Our daughter.”
The words escaped before Camille could stop them.
Alessandro froze.
Camille did too.
Neither corrected it.
Their daughter.
The phrase stood between them.
Sophie returned.
Outside the restaurant, Alessandro said goodbye without attempting to touch Camille.
He crouched to Sophie’s level.
“Thank you for lunch.”
“You paid.”
“Then thank you for the company.”
“Are you coming to Mom’s show?”
Alessandro looked at Camille.
“When is it?”
“Friday.”
“I’ll be there.”
Sophie nodded as if this were now a binding contract.
That evening Alessandro returned to his office and ordered a complete investigation of the flight manifest.
At 8:42 p.m., Matteo called.
“You were right.”
Alessandro put down his pen.
“About?”
“The seat changes.”
“Go on.”
“Camille and Sophie were originally together in row twelve.”
Alessandro’s expression darkened.
“Why were they separated?”
“Someone requested the change through the gallery travel account.”
“Who?”
“We’re tracing it.”
“And my seat?”
“Also changed manually.”
“When?”
“Twenty-eight minutes before boarding.”
Alessandro stood.
“From where?”
“That’s the interesting part.”
Matteo paused.
“The request came from an IP address in New York.”
“Whose?”
“We don’t have the device yet.”
“Location.”
Another pause.
“Vitali Tower.”
Alessandro stared through the windows at Manhattan.
His own headquarters.
Someone inside his organization had deliberately placed him beside Sophie.
But why?
If Vittorio had spent six years keeping them apart, why bring them together now?
Unless Vittorio had not arranged the seats.
Unless someone else inside the Vitali organization wanted Alessandro to discover the truth.
And the next morning, an anonymous envelope arrived at his office containing the first clue.
Inside were photocopies of twelve letters.
All written by Camille.
All addressed to Alessandro.
All stamped RETURN TO SENDER.
On the final page someone had written two words by hand:
May you like
ASK VITTORIO.
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