Chapter 6 - Camilla’s Family Makes Its Move

The law firm occupied forty-two floors of glass and quiet money.

By ten the next morning, I had learned two things.

First, rich people trusted polished reception desks far too much.

Second, trusts were exactly as boring as criminals hoped.

Alessandro could have called ahead and had a conference room waiting.

I refused.

“We arrive like ordinary clients.”

“You are not an ordinary client.”

“That is the point.”

Jean-Luc had gone back to work under protest. Henri stayed at the Brooklyn house with two of Alessandro’s men, also under protest. I suspected everyone in my life had recently discovered protest as a hobby.

I wore the only blazer I still owned from graduate school.

It was tight across the shoulders.

I told myself that was because I had become stronger.

Alessandro looked at it once.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something expensive.”

His mouth twitched.

We asked for estate records connected to Isabella Moretti.

The receptionist became cautious.

Then I gave my name.

Sophie Dubois.

That changed everything.

A senior partner arrived within eleven minutes.

Eleanor Grant was in her sixties, silver-haired, composed, and unimpressed by Alessandro Moretti. I liked her immediately.

She led us into a private office.

“I have been instructed for twenty-three years to contact a Dubois if one appeared with a specific request.”

“What request?”

“Bellombre.”

The word did not surprise her.

That scared me more than surprise would have.

“Who instructed you?” I asked.

“Isabella Moretti and Cécile Dubois.”

My mother.

I gripped the arms of the chair.

“You knew my mother?”

“I represented her.”

“No. You represented Isabella.”

“Both.”

The correction landed hard.

My mother had been involved.

Not adjacent.

Involved.

Eleanor opened a locked drawer.

Inside was a folder tied with plain cotton ribbon.

She did not push it toward me.

“Before I release anything, I need to verify your identity.”

“Of course.”

She asked for documents.

I had them.

Passport.

Birth certificate.

A notarized copy of my mother’s death certificate stored digitally.

Alessandro said nothing.

Eleanor checked everything.

Then she asked me a question that made no legal sense.

“What grew beside the kitchen window at Bellombre?”

I stared.

“Peaches.”

“What kind?”

“White peaches.”

She untied the ribbon.

“Good.”

Alessandro raised an eyebrow.

“Security question?”

“My mother’s idea,” Eleanor said. “She did not trust databases.”

Neither had Isabella.

Apparently paranoia could be hereditary by friendship.

Inside the folder was no dramatic confession.

Just documents.

Corporate charts.

Property maps.

Trust amendments.

Voting rights.

I read for forty minutes.

The structure was complicated, but not impossible.

Bellombre had been divided among three ownership categories.

Operating rights.

Land title.

Heritage trust.

Carlo Russo’s companies controlled much of the operating business.

Lorenzo Moretti controlled several investment entities with claims against improvements and export revenues.

But the land itself could not be sold, mortgaged, or materially altered without consent from the heritage trust.

The trust had three protected votes.

Isabella Moretti.

Cécile Dubois.

And, after both deaths, their designated descendants.

Alessandro.

Me.

I looked up.

“Together?”

Eleanor nodded.

“Unanimous consent.”

Alessandro leaned back.

“So neither of us can sell without the other.”

“Correct.”

“And Lorenzo cannot force a sale?”

“Not through ordinary corporate procedure.”

I turned another page.

Something bothered me.

“The trust doesn’t own all the land.”

“No.”

“Parcel seventeen is separate.”

Eleanor’s expression changed slightly.

“What do you know about parcel seventeen?”

“Enough to ask.”

She studied me.

Then opened a second drawer.

This time the folder was red.

“Parcel seventeen belongs to a charitable foundation registered in France.”

“Whose foundation?”

“Technically, no individual’s.”

“Who controls it?”

“No one presently.”

“That is impossible.”

“Not impossible. Inactive.”

She slid over the charter.

The foundation had been established to preserve a natural spring and fund agricultural education.

Its initial endowment came from Isabella.

Its co-founder was my mother.

There was my family again.

Everywhere.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

Eleanor’s voice softened.

“Your mother wanted you to have a life that was not defined by these people.”

I looked at Alessandro.

He took no offense.

Probably because he agreed.

“What activates the foundation?” I asked.

“An application from a qualified descendant accompanied by proof of the original endowment conditions.”

“What proof?”

Eleanor looked at us both.

“I don’t know.”

“Someone does.”

She nodded.

“Lorenzo.”

Of course.

The foundation mattered because parcel seventeen could not be developed.

If something had been buried there, the land’s protected status made excavation difficult without triggering review.

I flipped back to the corporate chart.

Then I saw it.

A company name appeared in three places.

Marchetti Cultural Holdings.

Minority investor.

Auction guarantor.

Debt purchaser.

“Who owns this?”

Alessandro leaned forward.

His face changed.

“Camilla.”

I looked at him.

“Personally?”

“Her mother created it. Camilla inherited.”

The pieces shifted.

Camilla was not just Carlo Russo’s daughter.

She held debt against Bellombre.

Enough debt to cause pressure.

Not enough to seize land without trust consent.

“What happens if Bellombre defaults?”

Eleanor answered.

“Operating assets can be sold.”

“But not parcel seventeen.”

“No.”

“So Camilla can destroy the business but still cannot touch the protected parcel.”

Alessandro nodded slowly.

“She needs us to agree.”

“Or needs the foundation never activated.”

I thought of her requesting me at the restaurant.

Humiliating me.

Maybe she had expected Alessandro to dismiss me.

Maybe she wanted him to see me.

Maybe both.

“What if the point of that dinner wasn’t to recruit me?” I asked.

Alessandro looked at me.

“What if it was to test you?”

“Test what?”

“Whether you recognized me. Whether you knew Bellombre. Whether you knew the wine.”

His eyes darkened.

“And whether I would protect you.”

“Yes.”

Camilla had watched both of us.

She had learned more in fifteen minutes than we had realized.

Eleanor closed the red folder.

“There is something else.”

Of course there was.

“A week ago, someone attempted to submit a proxy authorization on behalf of Sophie Dubois.”

My blood went cold.

“What?”

“It was rejected.”

“Why?”

“The signature did not match archived specimens from your mother’s records.”

I looked at the page.

Someone had tried to vote for me before I knew I had a vote.

“Who submitted it?”

“A French firm acting for Marchetti Cultural Holdings.”

Camilla.

I stood.

“We need a copy.”

“You will have one.”

Alessandro’s phone rang.

He checked it.

Did not answer.

“Who?”

“Camilla.”

I held out my hand.

“Answer.”

He did.

“Put it on speaker.”

Camilla’s voice came through cool and controlled.

“Alessandro. You left dinner without paying.”

“You own enough debt to survive it.”

Silence.

Then she laughed.

“So Sophie learned something.”

I spoke.

“Enough.”

Another pause.

“Hello, waitress.”

“Hello, proxy holder.”

That ended the performance.

Her voice hardened.

“You have no idea what you’re involved in.”

“Then explain.”

“I’m trying to keep Bellombre from collapsing.”

“By forging my authorization?”

“I didn’t forge anything.”

“Your company submitted it.”

“My lawyers made an error.”

“That is a remarkably expensive error.”

Alessandro watched me.

I kept going.

“Why did you request my table?”

Camilla did not answer.

“Why did you know my name?”

Still nothing.

Then:

“Because my father has been afraid of your family for twenty years.”

That was not what I expected.

“Carlo Russo is afraid of Henri Dubois?”

“No.”

Her voice dropped.

“He is afraid of your mother.”

“My mother is dead.”

“I know.”

The words sounded almost sad.

“What did she do?”

Camilla breathed out.

“She took something from my father.”

“What?”

“The only thing that could prove Bellombre was never just a vineyard.”

I thought of parcel seventeen.

The spring.

The buried box.

“What did she take?”

“I don’t know.”

“Convenient.”

“You think I enjoy this?”

“I think you enjoyed humiliating me.”

Silence.

Then, unexpectedly:

“I was trying to make you leave.”

I stared at the phone.

“Why?”

“Because Lorenzo was watching.”

Alessandro’s chair scraped back.

“How do you know?”

“He has someone inside the restaurant.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Camilla.”

“I don’t.”

For the first time, she sounded frightened without trying to hide it.

“My father told me if Sophie Dubois ever appeared near Alessandro Moretti, get her away from the table.”

“So you insulted me.”

“I needed you angry enough to walk.”

“You could have whispered a warning.”

“And if the person watching saw me warn you?”

I had no answer.

Neither did Alessandro.

Camilla continued.

“I made mistakes. I am not pretending otherwise. But if you go to Bellombre openly, Lorenzo will be ready.”

“We know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Her voice tightened.

“My father disappeared this morning.”

I looked at Alessandro.

“When?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Kidnapped?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where was he last seen?”

“At Newark airport.”

“Flying where?”

“Marseille.”

France.

Bellombre.

Camilla exhaled.

“He left me one message.”

“What did it say?”

“Not words.”

A pause.

“A photograph of a blue swallow.”

I sat down.

The symbol had belonged to my childhood.

To Isabella.

To my father.

Now to Carlo Russo.

Maybe it had never belonged to one person.

Maybe it marked the group who tried, too late, to stop what they had helped build.

Camilla spoke again.

“Sophie.”

It was the first time she had used my name without contempt.

“If you’re going to France, I’m coming.”

Alessandro immediately said, “No.”

I said, “Yes.”

He turned to me.

“Absolutely not.”

I looked back at him.

“Two families have spent twenty years hiding pieces from one another.”

I closed the trust folder.

“That is why Lorenzo keeps winning.”

Eleanor Grant watched us with the expression of a woman who had seen rich people repeat the same mistake across generations.

“What are you proposing?” Alessandro asked.

“The opposite.”

“Of what?”

“Secrets.”

I picked up the rejected proxy document.

“We put everyone in one room.”

“And trust them?”

“No.”

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I smiled without humor.

“We make lying expensive.”