The Price of Choosing Me

The first night back, I unpacked into Alessandro's drawers.

He watched from the bedroom doorway while I put my father's letter beside the ultrasound image in the nightstand.

"There's more space in the other dresser," he said.

"Are you complaining about my folding?"

"I'm trying to decide whether that's a sweater or an act of aggression."

I threw it at him.

He caught it and crossed the room, smiling in a way that made my chest ache. When he kissed me, the familiar heat returned, but beneath it was something steadier.

We had survived our first ugly thing without pretending it hadn't happened.

In the morning, Nora called with the preliminary findings.

My father's records matched the transfer identified in Matteo's recording. The documents alone didn't explain every event, but they gave investigators something solid to follow. Nora had arranged a meeting, with me and Alessandro represented separately.

Rafe had news too. The archive login had come from a computer assigned to Edwin Pike. He had used old credentials through an administrative connection that should have been closed years earlier.

"He was looking for what Mercer copied," Rafe said. "The access came after the photograph was delivered. Somebody wanted to know whether you and Emma could find it first."

"Do we know who?" I asked.

"We've tied the courier booking to Pike's assistant. That isn't the same as proving Sloane ordered it."

It was the first time a person investigating my parents' deaths had drawn that distinction without making me feel foolish for asking.

Alessandro listened with one hand resting on the back of my chair.

"Pike knows you can identify his computer," he said.

"He hasn't reported to work since yesterday. We're treating that as a problem."

After the call, I reached up and covered Alessandro's hand.

"Are you going to tell me we shouldn't go tomorrow?"

He bent and kissed the top of my head.

"I'm going to tell you Rafe is changing the route and the car. Then I'm going to ask what you'd like for breakfast."

I leaned back against him.

"Toast."

"You enjoy making me suffer."

"I think it's good for your character."

By noon, his accounts connected to the family holding company had been restricted pending a review. His father had removed him from an internal role and canceled the security support that came through the family business.

Rafe stayed.

"I work for you," he told Alessandro when I asked what happened to him now. "That hasn't changed."

"Your salary might."

Rafe looked around the kitchen. "Sell one of those hideous lamps."

I liked him considerably more after that.

Matteo came that evening. This time, he called first.

Alessandro told me I didn't have to see him. I said I wanted the sitting room door open, and I wanted to hear what was said.

His father entered without the leather folder. He looked older than he had a week earlier.

"Sloane knows about the packet," he said.

My stomach contracted.

"How?" Alessandro asked.

"He doesn't know where it is. He knows Daniel kept material outside our systems. Pike saw references in the archive."

"And the photograph?" Alessandro asked.

His father looked away. "Victor thought you'd discover who she was and decide she'd used you. He wanted you suspicious of her before she could tell you anything. When you brought her here instead, he became less patient."

I remembered the words on the back. Ask her real name. He hadn't merely wanted me found. He had wanted the man beside me to stop believing me.

"Pike is missing."

"He's with Sloane."

Matteo sat without being invited. I stayed in the doorway.

"Victor is prepared to stop," he said. "If the material stays private. The girl can receive support. You can return to your position."

"Her name is Emma," Alessandro said.

"I know her name."

"Then use it."

His father glanced toward me, then away.

"You know what follows if you give investigators everything. Not just for me. For you. They'll look at every company you own. Every transaction you've approved."

Alessandro was silent.

For the first time, I could see a fear that wasn't about me. He had spent years learning how to carry that surname. He knew exactly how much weight would fall when he put it down.

I stepped into the room.

"You should speak to your lawyer before you answer him," I said.

He looked at me.

"I'm serious," I continued. "I don't want a promise made because I'm standing here. I want you to know what you're choosing."

His expression softened, briefly and only for me.

"I've spoken to him. There are things I need to answer for. I won't ask you to disappear so I can avoid them."

Matteo's mouth tightened.

"You're throwing away your inheritance."

"Then keep it."

The words were quiet. They landed with a finality that made his father blink.

"This woman has known you for a matter of weeks. I'm your father."

Alessandro looked at him for a long time.

"I know. That's why this took longer than it should have."

Matteo stood. For a moment, I thought he might strike him.

Instead, he adjusted his cuff.

"Sloane won't be as sentimental as you are."

I saw Alessandro's face go cold.

"If he sends another message to her, I won't need to be sentimental. And if you're carrying threats for him, don't come back."

His father left without looking at me.

When the door closed, Alessandro remained where he was.

I went to him.

"Are you all right?"

He laughed once, without humor. "No."

I wrapped my arms around his waist.

He rested his forehead against mine, and I felt the fine tremor he had kept out of his voice.

"I love you," I said.

His eyes closed.

I hadn't planned to say it there, with his father's engine still audible outside. But I didn't want the moment to pass while he thought he had lost everything.

"You don't have to say it because of what just happened," he whispered.

"I wanted to say it in that miserable apartment. I wanted to say it when you sat beside me and didn't ask to read my father's letter. I'm saying it now because I'm tired of treating every good thing like a mistake I'm about to pay for."

He kissed me so hard I caught his shoulders.

When he drew back, his hand cradled my jaw.

"I love you," he said. "And I don't know how to be halfway in it."

"I'm not asking for halfway. I'm asking you to leave room for me."

He kissed my forehead.

"Stay close while I learn."

That night, he opened the drawer beside the bed and moved his watch so my father's case could sit next to it.

I watched him do it without speaking.

In the morning, we would give our accounts to people who could ask questions neither of us wanted to answer. He might lose businesses. His father might face charges. I might have to say aloud what four years of fear had done to my life.

For that night, I lay against him and let myself have something no one could put in a folder or use in a negotiation.

I was loved. He was frightened. We stayed.