Part 5
At least, that had been the design.
“Where is Tomas?” Mara asked.
Tomas Valli, the villa’s security director, had spent twelve years in hotel security before Paolo hired him. He disliked Mara because she insisted equipment be hidden without sacrificing coverage, a request he considered architecturally precious and operationally foolish.
“He came early,” Carla said. “He’s with Signor Paolo.”
Mara felt the skin beneath her bruise tighten.
She opened her bag, found her tablet, and checked the restoration records. The final security plans remained stored in a project folder. Camera EH-01 covered the entrance hall. The system notes listed a seventy-two-hour local retention period and a thirty-day encrypted mirror for insured areas.
She photographed the page with her phone.
“Listen to me,” she said. “Do not confront anyone. Do not send me messages from the villa network. Do not take anything. If someone asks what we discussed, tell them I needed my bag.”
Carla nodded.
“And if they threaten your job?”
“They won’t call it a threat.”
Mara looked at the young woman’s folded hands. “No. They won’t.”
When Mara returned to the entrance hall, Paolo stood beneath the chandelier.
He wore a dark blue suit and held a folder against his side. Tomas remained several paces behind him near the staircase.
“You should not be here,” Paolo said.
“My office is still part of the property until the restoration contract closes next month.”
“That arrangement can end today.”
“It can. There will be fees.”
“You are remarkably calm.”
“My ankle hurts too much for theatrics.”
Paolo’s gaze moved to the bruise on her cheek.
“Matteo regrets losing his temper.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He does not need to.”
Mara shifted her weight on the crutches. “I need the entrance hall footage preserved.”
Tomas looked toward Paolo.
Paolo did not.
“There is no reason for you to have private security footage.”
“There is every reason.”
“You were present. You know what happened.”
“Yes,” Mara said. “So do you.”
The rain clicked against the open upper windows.
Tomas cleared his throat. “The system was undergoing maintenance yesterday.”
Mara turned to him. “The recording light was on.”
“The indicator shows power, not successful storage.”
“That was not the specification.”
“Equipment changes.”
“Not without updated insurance documentation.”
Paolo lifted one hand. Tomas stopped speaking.
“This family has spent the night wondering whether Elena will remain pregnant,” Paolo said. “You arrive demanding files.”
“I arrived because your son hit me after finding his wife on the floor, and you are already explaining why the one camera facing the scene failed.”
“You should be careful.”
“Is that advice?”
“It is compassion. You are injured and angry. Angry people sometimes make accusations that follow them longer than they expect.”
Mara’s fingers tightened around the crutch handles.
Paolo stepped closer. “Go home. Let Elena recover. Do not turn a private tragedy into a public dispute.”
“You made it public when Matteo struck me in front of twenty people.”
“My son made an error under extraordinary pressure.”
“And you?”
For the first time, Paolo’s expression shifted.
Not fear. Irritation.
Mara had seen it during restoration meetings whenever a contractor asked for written confirmation of an instruction Paolo preferred to give verbally.
“I’m asking you formally to preserve every recording from yesterday between four and six,” she said. “Local, mirrored, copied, or transmitted. I will send the request in writing.”
“You are not in a position to ask this family for anything.”
“No,” Mara said. “I’m in a position to ask the police.”
Tomas looked down.
Paolo walked past her without another word.
Mara listened to his steps cross the marble. He did not hurry.
The police officer who took her statement that afternoon was patient but unsentimental. He photographed her cheek again, reviewed the clinic report, and asked whether she wished to make a formal complaint against Matteo.
“Yes.”
The word felt heavier after she said it.
“Were you threatened afterward?”
“Not explicitly.”
“Were there witnesses to the assault?”
“At least fifteen.”
“Will they confirm it?”
“I don’t know.”
The officer wrote something.
Mara described the entrance hall, Elena’s condition, Matteo’s arrival, and the strike. When he asked what had caused Elena to end up on the floor, Mara looked at the recorder placed between them.
“I didn’t see the beginning.”
“You were standing beside her.”
“I had turned toward the console. She told Paolo to give back her phone. When I turned around, she was losing her balance.”
The officer waited.
Mara swallowed.
She had obeyed the source moment’s logic even in memory: she had never allowed herself to replay the exact collapse. What remained were fragments—the pale sage skirt shifting, Elena’s hand reaching without finding the table, Paolo’s body pulling away, Mara lunging forward, pain exploding in her ankle as she caught Elena’s shoulders but not all of her weight.
“Did Paolo push her?” the officer asked.
“I did not see a push.”
“Did he touch her?”
“I saw his hand near her wrist seconds earlier. I can’t say exactly what happened after I turned.”
“Why did you turn away?”
“Elena’s phone struck the console and slid behind a vase. I reached for it.”
“Where was Paolo when Matteo entered?”
“Gone.”
“Which way?”
“The private staircase corridor.”
“And Mrs. Rinaldi?”
“Conscious. Frightened. Trying to breathe.”
The officer leaned back. “You understand that these are two separate matters. The assault against you, which has witnesses, and whatever happened to Mrs. Rinaldi.”
“I understand.”
“Do you want medical assistance beyond what you received?”
“No.”
“Legal counsel?”
“I have called someone.”
“Then preserve your messages and photographs. Do not contact witnesses in a way that could be interpreted as coordinating statements.”
Mara almost smiled. Half the Rinaldi household was already being coordinated through silence.
She left the station after dark.
Her brother, Nico, waited outside in a rain jacket, leaning against a dented green hatchback. He was twenty-six and had inherited their father’s crooked nose and their mother’s inability to hide anger.
May you like
“You look terrible,” he said.
“Thank you.”
