Page 13 of Lorenzo

“Owns an apartment. All the Ricci brothers own their own units. It’s not unusual for wealthy individuals to own apartments in a hotel in this city.”

The elevator doors open, and a new middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit greets me.

Is this my new husband, the nightclub impresario?

Anna called him gorgeous. But he’s older than I imagined. And Anna’s prone to exaggeration.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ricci,” I begin, not knowing what to call my temporary husband.

“I’m Ciro, Mr. Ricci’s manservant,” he says, once the concierge has gone.

He carries himself with the posture of someone who has spent decades being useful and invisible in equal measure.

I can’t quite place the origin of his vague accent.

“I’ve put your suitcase in your room. I would offer you something to eat, but the ceremony begins within the hour.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say.

The living room opens up around me, all floor-to-ceiling windows in the bright sunlight.

A white leather sofa faces the glass in an inviting way. And the coffee table shines perfectly clear. Not a fingerprint on it.

Nothing in the room looks touched.

“I’ll show you around,” Ciro says.

I follow him as he gives me the grand tour.

The kitchen opens off the living room. All pale stone and brushed steel.

A row of tall chairs lines the island like polite guests waiting to be seated.

“Does anyone eat in this room?”

“This apartment belongs to Lorenzo Ricci alone. He’s usually at the office. But yes, sometimes he’ll have espresso here in the morning.”

I nod.

Ciro leads me down a hallway and opens a door.

“Mr. Ricci’s library.”

The scent hits me before my eyes adjust. I detect a rawhide-like aroma and faint suggestion of tobacco. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, packed with books whose gold leather spines have gone soft with age.

A brass reading lamp sits on the corner of a wide mahogany desk. Quaint. Like a real 19th-century study.

“It serves as his private study and home office when he isn’t at the club. Mr. Ricci conducts his most confidential business here, so he prefers it remain undisturbed.”

“All those books! Is Mr. Ricci a great reader?”

“You’re best to ask Mr. Ricci,” he says. Then he gracefully steps aside to usher me back into the hall.

I linger in the doorway a moment longer, eyes moving across the shelves with longing. Some authors I recognize, others not.

How wonderful it would be to spend an afternoon here and lose myself in these cherished classics.

I turn my attention back to Ciro.