Chapter 4 - The Bird They Buried
Alessandro didn't let Niccolo Ferraro upstairs. Instead, he asked Raymond to escort the visitor to a sitting room on the thirty-eighth floor and tell him the penthouse was closed for a private family matter. Ferraro's reply arrived before Raymond had finished speaking: Family matters are exactly why I'm here.
"Who is he?" I asked.
"My father's lawyer. His adviser. Sometimes his conscience, although he usually sent the bill afterward."
"And he knows about Mia already?"
"Apparently."
Alessandro called a woman named June Park, an investigator who had worked on legitimate corporate security cases for him for years. He asked her to come without announcing the purpose. Then he dismissed the remaining appointments on his calendar and took us into a smaller room lined with books. It smelled faintly of cedar and coffee. The city beyond the windows looked wet and ordinary, which seemed almost offensive under the circumstances.
"You don't have to tell me about your family," I said.
"If I ask you to trust me with yours, I think I do."
He took a framed photograph from a shelf. Two teenage boys stood beside a fishing boat. One was unmistakably Alessandro, already serious, one hand protectively gripping the shoulder of a younger boy with unruly dark hair. The younger boy wore a ridiculous yellow shirt and grinned at the camera as though somebody had just told him the best joke in the world.
A silver swallow flashed against his chest.
I leaned closer. "That's him."
"Marco. He hated the family business. He loved boats, old movies, and making our mother furious by bringing home injured birds." Alessandro smiled before he knew he was doing it. "Once he spent an entire weekend trying to teach a rescued pigeon to land on our father's desk."
"Did it work?"
"Our father had a pigeon problem for a month."
The smile vanished. He placed the photograph carefully on the table. "He and I had a terrible argument the week before he disappeared. I wanted him to accept his responsibilities. He wanted to leave. I said things a brother shouldn't say. The last time I saw him, he told me I was turning into our father."
I thought about Daniel talking to my stomach during pregnancy, promising our child that no argument would ever last longer than bedtime. The promises hurt because he hadn't lived long enough to attempt them.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I carried that argument to his funeral. I thought I would carry it to mine."
He explained the silver bird. Their mother had given both brothers small charms after a summer spent visiting the coast, telling them swallows returned to the same place every year regardless of the distance traveled. Alessandro's charm had disappeared during a move. Marco's remained on its chain until the funeral. Their father insisted on putting it into the coffin with an old photograph and the yellow shirt.
"You watched them close it?" I asked.
"I did. But the funeral director asked everyone to leave while the final arrangements were made. My father stayed behind. So did Ferraro."
I looked toward the doorway. "The lawyer downstairs?"
"Yes."
A knock sounded. June Park entered in a raincoat, carrying a small notebook and the kind of alert, unhurried expression that suggested she noticed details other people wasted energy concealing. Alessandro introduced us, then explained what had happened. I expected June to immediately demand Mia's birth certificate and the necklace. Instead, she asked whether I wanted coffee and whether Daniel's mother was likely to welcome contact.
"I can call her myself," I said. "She won't answer a stranger."
"Good," June replied. "Start there. And let's separate what we know from what we imagine. A similar pendant is a reason to ask questions, not an answer."
She wrote three columns across her page: confirmed, remembered, unverified. I liked her immediately.
Alessandro called Raymond for information about Ferraro's visit. The adviser had arrived without an appointment, asked the receptionist whether anyone had seen a child, and claimed to be collecting documents for an inheritance review. He hadn't mentioned a child in any message to Alessandro before that afternoon.
"How could he hear about Mia so quickly?" I asked.
June didn't pretend to know. "Building gossip moves quickly. So do messages sent by people who profit from being first to know something. We'll find out which this is."
She asked permission to see the necklace, photographed the bent wing and tiny scratches under the chain ring, and returned it at once. Then she showed Alessandro a copy of an old photograph from a public archive. It depicted Marco's funeral procession. Walking close behind the coffin were their father and Ferraro, both looking toward an elderly woman in a dark coat.
"Who's she?" I asked.
"Rosina. She kept our family house," Alessandro replied. "She's the one who taught Marco how to sew up a bird's wing. She retired years ago."
"Is she still alive?"
He nodded slowly. "She lives upstate. She sends me a Christmas card every year. I never answer properly."
"Maybe start now," I said.
For a moment I thought he would take offense. Instead, he looked tired and embarrassed.
That evening he finally allowed Ferraro into the library. I had moved with Mia into the adjoining nursery, where the door stood slightly open. I didn't mean to listen, but I heard every word.
"A baby in the penthouse," Ferraro said pleasantly. "Unexpected, Alessandro. Your father would have considered that a serious security problem."
"My father also considered birthday parties a distraction. What do you want?"
"To remind you that Marco's estate has never been fully settled. If a blood descendant exists, old agreements may become complicated. We should address that quietly."
"There is no established descendant. You're discussing an employee's child."
"Of course. I'm simply thinking ahead."
Ferraro left soon afterward, without meeting me. But he slipped a cream-colored envelope under the nursery door as he passed. My name was written on the front in beautiful black handwriting.
May you like
Inside was one sheet of paper. There was no signature, only a sentence that made my hands turn cold: Ask Christine what Marco left behind before you let Alessandro decide your daughter's future.
I couldn't tell whether it was advice, a threat, or the beginning of somebody else's plan.
