Chapter 7 — The Man at My Right Hand

I called Julian.

He answered as though he had been waiting.

“Anthony. I thought you might prefer to speak.”

“How did you hear about Maria’s apartment?”

“One of our people saw Marco outside the building.”

“Which person?”

“I’d have to ask.”

“Ask.”

A brief silence.

Then he gave a small, indulgent laugh.

“You sound tired.”

“I asked you a question.”

“And I’ll get you an answer. In the meantime, let me help.”

“With what?”

“Finding what was taken.”

“I haven’t told you anything was taken.”

The silence lasted longer this time.

“People rarely break into an apartment to admire the furniture.”

“That depends on what they want.”

“Exactly. Which is why bringing strangers into a private matter is unwise.”

“Her home was broken into. She reported it.”

“I meant the lawyer.”

I looked at Marco.

He was standing across the breakfast table, close enough to hear Julian through the phone.

“Daniel is my lawyer.”

“He isn’t part of the family.”

“He’s licensed to ask questions. That’s why I called him.”

Julian’s warmth thinned.

“Your father would never have allowed outsiders into something like this.”

“My father isn’t here.”

“No. He isn’t.”

I ended the call.

Marco stared at the phone.

“He knows about Daniel.”

“Find out who saw him arrive. Staff, drivers, anyone at the gate. Ask for facts, not suspects.”

“You think somebody in the house told him?”

“I think he wants me to believe he knows everything.”

Maria stood very still beside the counter.

“He came here before I started working for you,” she said.

“Julian?”

She nodded.

“He spoke to Mrs. Donnelly once while I was cleaning the back hall. Asked whether my references had been checked.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Only to ask my name.”

“Your full name?”

“Yes.”

I called the supervisor and requested the visitor records for Maria’s first week.

Then I asked her whether she wanted different accommodation until we understood more.

She looked toward Sophia.

“She’s comfortable here.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be.”

“I’m not comfortable anywhere today.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

We agreed on another night, then another conversation. Marco arranged for someone to accompany her sister home and asked Maria to approve the person before he sent him.

After lunch, Daniel returned with copies of the preserved files.

He had left Maria’s original drive untouched.

“There are more folders than I expected,” he said.

“Work files?”

“Some public property records. Notes. Scans of correspondence. We need time to separate what matters from what doesn’t.”

“Take it.”

He gave Maria a receipt for the copy she had authorized him to retain.

She read it before signing.

I liked that.

The following evening, the same men returned to my conference room.

Carbone brought a thick folder. Rossi brought an explanation. DeLuca brought nothing and hoped confidence would substitute for it.

Julian arrived last.

He shook my hand and lowered himself into the chair at my right.

His cuff slipped back.

The gold watch was there, as it had been for most of my adult life.

My father had given it to him.

I remembered Julian wearing it at my mother’s funeral, checking the time before telling me we needed to leave.

Marco stood at my left.

I had asked him earlier whether he wanted a chair.

“No,” he’d said. “Not tonight.”

I opened Carbone’s folder.

“Which of these reports did you verify?”

He pointed to the first page.

“Rossi’s man spoke to the warehouse manager.”

“The manager told my people he received a warning from an unidentified driver.”

“That’s one account.”

“It’s the only account from someone actually at the warehouse.”

Rossi leaned forward.

“You’re suggesting we invented it?”

“I’m asking why three different reports contain the same wording.”

I turned the pages toward him.

The sentence appeared in each one.

An immediate response is required before outside crews establish control.

Different names at the bottom.

Identical language.

Julian adjusted his cuff.

“Because my office helped consolidate the information. We were trying to save time.”

“Then this is one report copied three times.”

“Anthony, this is how we’ve always worked.”

“Not when the information is unconfirmed.”

Carbone’s palm struck the table.

“We had people ready. You wouldn’t even come home.”

“I gave an order to stand down.”

“And now everyone knows why.”

I closed the folder.

“What do they know?”

He glanced at Julian.

I saw it.

So did Marco.

“They know a child walked into this room and your priorities changed,” Carbone said.

“My priorities include not sending your men to attack a warehouse because someone repeated a rumor.”

“We weren’t going to attack it.”

“Then explain the fuel cans found in the second vehicle.”

Nobody spoke.

I let the silence do its work.

Julian finally leaned toward me.

“Perhaps we should discuss this privately.”

“We’re discussing it here.”

“Some of us have supported you for decades.”

“Yes.”

“And we deserve better than suspicion.”

“Then give me something better than excuses.”

He sat back.

For the next half hour, I made them account for every instruction, every driver, every source. When an answer ended with “someone said,” I wrote down the name of the person who had heard it.

Several men became less certain.

Two admitted they had moved because Julian’s office told them I would approve.

I wrote that down too.

Then Marco’s phone vibrated.

He read the message and leaned toward me.

“Maria sent something.”

“What?”

“The building manager showed her a clearer frame. She photographed the screen with his permission. The original is still preserved.”

He placed the phone beside my notes.

The intruder’s face remained mostly hidden.

But he was reaching toward the stairwell door, and his sleeve had risen.

A gold watch.

The shape of the case was familiar. So was the dark band across its face.

I looked at Julian’s wrist.

He was watching Carbone.

A watch could be borrowed. Copied. Misidentified in a poor image.

It was a reason to investigate.

It was not an answer.

I returned the phone to Marco.

“Send it to Daniel with the explanation of where it came from.”

He nodded.

I resumed the meeting.

Julian interrupted twice. Both times he wanted us to settle on a response before checking who had created the problem.

Both times I refused.

Near the end, Marco slid a folded page beneath my notebook.

“From Miguel’s scans,” he murmured.

I opened it without changing my expression.

It was a page from a lined notebook.

Miguel had written a date, then a description of a visit.

No name.

But beneath the description was one sentence.

If I ever get the chance to meet my father, I need to ask why the man who warned me away has spent his life sitting at my father’s right hand.

I read it again.

Julian had been there at my wedding to a woman I never loved.

At my father’s burial.

At every meeting where I had been reminded that affection made men careless.

I looked up.

His eyes were on the paper.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he lowered his right hand beneath the table.

When it came back, the watch was gone.