After Dante's footsteps had long disappeared, I remained sprawled on the cold marble floor, still trembling from the aftereffects of adrenaline and terror. The weakness I had feigned had been replaced by actual weakness; my limbs were heavy, and my mind hollowed out. He had believed it. The thought offered no consolation, only an ice-cold understanding of the sorrowful road ahead. Dressing up in his presence was going to be my daily chore. Carefully selecting every word would be my other. Concealing every look under a mask was the third. No longer just his captive, I was now to be a spy in the very heart of the enemy's castle, and what lay within that castle was his mind.
I regained my composure as I held the diary, which felt warm and soft against my palm. It was the only tangible thing in this world of lies. I flipped through without reading it, in the hold of that midnight, just contemplating all the burden of the secret it held. By dawn, the fear was no longer there; rather, it had taken on a hard, sharp shape: a plan. The diary talked of letters. Letters that could prove Isabella's murder and my father's innocence. Those letters were my only hope for true freedom: from the penthouse in utter and complete liberating escape from the shame and guilt of the Romano name.
Hiding the diary was no longer an option. I had to use it. But I couldn't let anyone know what I knew. I had to lead Dante and Sofia; make them guide me toward the truth. My only weapon was my "education."
When Sofia arrived later that morning, her demeanor was as crisp and starched as her blouse. She carried a tablet and maintained the aura of a professor ready to give a lecture. I had prepared myself. I was seated on the sofa, a book of poetry open but unread in my lap. I had my posture slightly slumped, my eyes downcast, the perfect picture of one beaten down and compliant.
"Today, we will review the primary Moretti business holdings," Sofia declared without preamble. "It is important that you understand the scope of the empire."
This was my opening. I looked up, deliberately allowing a calculated wistfulness to creep into my expression. "Sofia," I began slowly, my voice soft and hesitant, "could I ask something first?"
Her single eyebrow rose questioningly. "If it is relevant."
"It's just..." I paused as if searching for words. "Dante said the past is dead. But she... Isabella... feels so much alive here. If I'm supposed to... to be her... I need to know her. As a person. Not just a name on a trust fund." I was staring at my lap. "I need to know what she loved."
Sofia remained expressionless, but a flicker of impatience flashed in her eyes. "Her taste was well recorded. She liked the opera, Renaissance art, and specifically cultivated roses in the conservatory. We can do this later."
"No," I intervened, gently stressing the word in a peremptory tone. "I want to know where she felt happiness. Where she felt safe." I risked a glance up at her. "I had this... strange dream last night. I dreamt of a house with white walls, right by the sea, and an air of... jasmine perfume."
A lie, but a strategic one: a detail taken from a passage in the diary describing gardens at her favorite getaway which Isabella described. I relied on the fact that it was such a personal detail that Sofia would see it not as a guess but as... a sign of my... adoption. Or a memory of a ghost bleeding into mine.
Sofia halted. For the first time, her professional mask slipped, her penetrating gaze now studying me in an unsettling fashion. The air was thick with unspoken questions: Did she buy it? Did she think I was insane?
"Scent of jasmine," Sofia repeated slowly, her voice losing a bit of the clinical tone. "That's... specific." She lapsed into silence, for what felt like an eternity, and I could almost hear the rapid pounding of my heart against my ribs. Had I gone too far?
Finally, she gave a curt nod, as if making up her mind. "It was Moretti's coastal estate. Her haven, bestowed by Dante's grandfather. She used to have private gardens there, which were filled with night-blooming jasmine. She said that aroma reminded her of her childhood in Sicily."
I exhaled a breath, quaveringly, with my shoulders collapsing toward relief—one that felt ridiculously genuine. "The coastal estate," I repeated as if committing a sacramental text to memory. "Was she... happy there?"
"Well, it was the only place where her husband's darker moods did not seem to reach her," Sofia carelessly let slip, her voice brisk, as if she had shared more than she meant to. She quickly cleared her throat, bringing her professionalism back into place. "This point is now irrelevant. Regarding the shipping terminals..."
She turned back to her tablet, and I had stopped listening. I had done it. I had planted the seed. I had planted the sanctuary, the estate name, into the narrative. A small victory, one move in a game for which the odds were impossibly stacked against me. But while Sofia droned on about logistics and corporate structures, I felt a flicker of something that I hadn't felt since capture: power. The snake's first move. All that remained now was to sit back and wait for the venom to act.