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“Every shred of evidence pointed at him,” I explain, going to my desk to retrieve the copies of the account I showed Marco. I hand her the application and the account statements. “Take a look for yourself.” It’s all there in black and white, but I’m not sure she’s in any frame of mind to give us the benefit of reason.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it seem like him,” I continue. “That account was set up in your name, and he was the beneficiary. It was funded with a million and a half euros from Premier accounts, Valentina. A million and a half euros. That’s a lot of reasons to want you dead.” I’m livid just saying the words.
Her eyes haven’t left the statements as she struggles to make sense of it.
“We go where the facts take us,” I say softly, “even if it’s in a direction we can’t bear.”
“Can’t bear?” she repeats, scowling. “Bullshit.” She tosses the papers in my direction, and they land at my feet.
“You never wanted me to marry him. He doesn’t have enough money. Or enough power. It never mattered to you, to either of you,” she says, looking from me to her father, “that I loved him or that he loved me.”
“That’s not true, menina,” Antonio says quietly. “You’re angry, and I can appreciate that, but you damn well know that I never interfered in your relationship with Marco.”
Valentina glowers at him in a way that most people would never dare to do. “You didn’t interfere because”—she points to me—“he had his nose so far up my business, and was reporting every detail back to you.”
She’s not wrong. But I won’t apologize for thoroughly vetting her future husband, and I’ll be surprised if Antonio apologizes. She was a kid when Marco came sniffing around, and we didn’t know much about him except that his great-grandfather was involved with stealing art and funneling it to the Nazis. Not much of a calling card.
“Let me tell you both something. I’m a grown woman, not the teenage girl who put up with your nonsense because she didn’t know any better. If you manage to break up my marriage, not only will I never forgive you, but I’ll find another man if it takes me all my life. I’ll fuck everyone with a dick from here to hell and even a few people without—”
“Get out,” Antonio yells in the direction of Cristiano, Zé, and Lucas, who flee the room without looking back.
“You crossed the line, Valentina,” he chides, sternly, once they’re gone.
Not what I would have said first.
“I crossed a line?” She puts a hand on her hip. “Really? Does my mother know about this?”
“I don’t share every business decision with your mother.”
That would be no.
“I’m not surprised you didn’t have the courage to tell her.” She’s pushing her father more than is wise. Antonio is giving her some leeway to vent, but it won’t last forever.
“This wasn’t meant to embarrass either you or Marco.” I pick up the papers and wave them under her nose. “We took great pains to avoid it. But we needed to get to the bottom of it. Don’t tell me it’s not mighty suspicious.”
“Have you gotten to the bottom of it?” she asks, the sugar dripping from her voice like arsenic. “Or should we prepare for another chapter of the Inquisition?”
“I’m never apologizing for protecting you, menina,” Antonio says with his unique ring of finality that signals to sane people the conversation is done. “I love you too much for that.”
“That’s not love, Dad. I’m tired of you both trying to pass off your despicable behavior as love.”
She’s not going to stop until he explodes. I don’t want that for either of them.
“If Marco wants to clear the air with us,” I tell her, hoping to deflect some of the ire away from her father, “he’s welcome anytime.” It would kill me to see her relationship with Antonio destroyed. It would kill him too. “But you know what? A man fights his own battles. He doesn’t send his wife.”
“Marco didn’t send me,” she hisses. “He waved me off when I asked why he was upset when he got home the other day. So shove your damn misogynist slogan up your ass.”
Without another word to either of us, she turns and storms out, like she came in, hair flying behind her.
“That went well.” I plop on a chair across from Antonio at the table where we’d been working and blow out a loud whoosh of air.
“She’s just like her mother,” Antonio mutters. “Carbon copy.”
Given how many times you’ve pissed off Daniela, maybe you know how to fix this. “Any ideas about how we can smooth this over?”
He grunts. “She’s got a soft heart. She’ll eventually come around, but it might require me to have a heart attack or step in front of a bus before it happens.”
That’s helpful.
