Chapter 18 - Listening Before Certainty
|
After lunch finished, the afternoon warmth settled deep into the estate grounds. Emma wandered away from the dining patio and walked quietly into Lorenzo’s study, her heels clicking softly against the dark hardwood floors.
She stood before the bookshelf, her eyes scanning the framed photographs that chronicled a life defined by resistance and survival.
There was the original photograph of Isabella in the sun. There was the shot of the garden from five years ago. And beside it sat an official laminated card from the Claire Fund—the foundation Isabella had established to protect corporate whistleblowers and corporate victims.
As Emma looked closer, her eyes caught an archival storage box sitting on the bottom shelf, neatly labeled in Lorenzo’s precise handwriting: Legal Proceedings & Personal Records.
Protruding slightly from the edge of the box was an old, yellowed funeral program.
"Do you still keep that?" Emma asked as Lorenzo walked into the room behind her.
"Yes," Lorenzo replied, standing beside her with his hands tucked into his trousers pockets.
"Why?"
"History," Lorenzo said simply.
Isabella stepped into the study right behind him, holding two small cups of espresso.
"And comedy," Isabella chimed in dryly.
Lorenzo groaned softly, rolling his eyes. "It is not a comedy, Isabella."
"It has its moments," she insisted with a slight smirk before looking at Emma.
Emma laughed, the tension easing completely. "May I see it?"
Isabella handed the worn paper over to Emma. It was the official funeral program from the service held decades ago. Emma stared down at the crisp black text printed across the cover:
In Loving Memory of Isabella DeLuca. 1988–2026.
Emma’s breath hitched as she read the dates printed side by side.
"You were officially dead for two months," Emma whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Administratively speaking, yes," Isabella replied, taking a slow sip of her coffee.
"That is completely wild," Emma said, shaking her head.
"Very," Isabella agreed softly.
Emma looked up from the paper, her tone turning serious as she looked directly into Isabella’s eyes.
"Were you scared?" Emma asked quietly. "Back then... when you were hiding?"
Isabella’s playful smile faded, replaced by the ghost of a memory that never quite went away.
"Yes," Isabella admitted honestly.
"More than angry?"
"Yes," Isabella nodded. "In the beginning, anger kept me warm. But when you are sitting alone in the dark, wondering if the men hunting you are going to find you before the truth comes out... fear is mostly all that's left."
Emma turned her gaze toward Lorenzo, holding his stern, weathered eyes.
"Were you scared, Mr. DeLuca?"
Lorenzo stared out the study window toward the sprawling garden. At thirty-nine years old, when he was a formidable man surrounded by bodyguards and wealth, he would have taken that question to his grave before admitting the truth.
Now, decades later, he didn't care about looking invulnerable.
"Yes," Lorenzo said quietly.
"What were you scared of?" Emma asked. "Vincent? The police?"
Lorenzo looked at Emma, his voice dropping to a low, raw rumble.
May you like
"Hope."
---
