Chapter 2 - THE PAGES THAT DIDN’T BELONG
Fatima knew something was wrong the next morning.
Not because Alessandro said anything.
Because Marco Bellini came to breakfast.
Marco almost never ate at the estate.
He preferred downtown restaurants where people recognized him.
Yet at eight-thirty, he sat opposite Genevieve discussing flowers as if wedding planning had always interested seventy-year-old attorneys.
Fatima carried coffee into the breakfast room.
Marco looked at her once.
Then again.
Not at her face.
At her name badge.
F. OKAFOR.
His expression changed.
Small.
But Fatima had spent six years working inside law offices before life collapsed.
She had learned to notice small things.
Genevieve said:
“Fatima, more coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She poured.
Marco asked:
“Okafor. Nigerian?”
Fatima looked at him.
“My parents were.”
“You were born here?”
“In Milwaukee.”
“Interesting.”
It wasn’t.
Which meant the question was not casual.
Fatima left.
Twenty minutes later, Alessandro found her inside the linen room.
“Do you know Marco Bellini?”
The folded towel stopped in her hands.
“No.”
He noticed the hesitation.
“Try again.”
Fatima looked toward the hallway.
“Not personally.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her jaw tightened.
“My late husband knew the name.”
Alessandro’s expression changed.
“What was your husband’s name?”
“Daniel Okafor.”
Alessandro knew it.
Not the face.
The name.
Dock accountant.
Dead eighteen months.
Supposed car accident.
Something inside him tightened.
“Your husband worked for Rienzi Maritime.”
Fatima looked surprised.
“For a subcontractor.”
“Northlake Terminal Services.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked about my husband.”
Fair.
“He died while still employed there?”
“Two days after he quit.”
Alessandro became completely still.
“Why did he quit?”
Fatima looked at him for a long moment.
Then:
“He found invoices.”
“What invoices?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fatima.”
“I really don’t.”
Her eyes hardened.
“Daniel stopped sleeping. Started checking the locks twice. He told me if anyone asked, I knew nothing about the ports.”
Alessandro’s stomach tightened.
“Then?”
“He died.”
“Police report?”
“Car left the road near Kenosha.”
“Alcohol?”
“None.”
“Mechanical failure?”
“Supposedly.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then Fatima said something Alessandro did not expect.
“I didn’t come here because of him.”
He looked at her.
“I needed work.”
“Only?”
She hesitated.
“No.”
There it was.
“I wanted to see whether anyone recognized his name.”
Alessandro almost respected the honesty.
“Did anyone?”
“Until this morning?”
She looked toward breakfast room.
“No.”
“Marco?”
“I think so.”
Alessandro’s face cooled.
Fatima folded another towel.
“What did Amara tell you?”
He did not answer.
Good.
She nodded.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust information I cannot verify.”
“That’s better.”
“Better than what?”
“Trusting nobody.”
That irritated him because it sounded too insightful.
“Why were you a maid if you worked in law?”
“I was a legal assistant.”
“What happened?”
“My husband died.”
She said it simply.
“Childcare became impossible. Debt became possible.”
Alessandro knew that equation.
“Then I found estate work with housing and flexible shifts.”
“Amara lives here with you?”
“In the staff cottage.”
He nodded.
Fatima asked:
“Does Genevieve know you're investigating?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking at her like that.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Like what?”
“Like you've already selected the coffin.”
He almost smiled.
“You’re remarkably comfortable talking to me.”
“I’m remarkably tired.”
Fair.
Before leaving, Alessandro said:
“If you remember anything Daniel said about Marco, tell me.”
Fatima nodded.
Then stopped him.
“Mr. Rienzi.”
“Yes?”
“The prenuptial agreement.”
His attention sharpened.
“What about it?”
“I saw copies yesterday.”
“Where?”
“East suite.”
“Genevieve's room?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She asked me to move paperwork off the dressing table.”
“And?”
“I used to prepare execution copies for attorneys.”
Fatima looked uneasy.
“One page was wrong.”
Alessandro stepped closer.
“Wrong how?”
“The font.”
Silence.
“Same family. Different spacing.”
“What page?”
“I don't know.”
“You read it?”
“No.”
“That was wise.”
“I do occasionally make those choices.”
He ignored the joke.
“What would different formatting mean?”
Fatima answered:
“Maybe nothing.”
Then:
“Maybe someone replaced a page after the document was finalized.”
Alessandro called Matteo immediately.
The original prenuptial agreement sat inside Rienzi counsel’s secured document system.
A paper copy Genevieve possessed should have matched exactly.
It did not.
Page forty-seven had been replaced.
The original clause:
Upon incapacity, existing corporate governance remains under board authority.
Genevieve's copy:
Upon temporary incapacity following marriage, designated spouse may act as emergency personal representative and nominate interim voting proxy for privately held family interests.
Alessandro read it twice.
“Is it signed?”
“No,” Matteo said.
“Not yet.”
Wedding documents were scheduled for execution in nine days.
Matteo continued:
“There’s another file attached.”
Medical durable power of attorney.
Genevieve Ashworth.
Primary representative.
Marco Bellini.
Alternate.
Alessandro stared at Marco's name.
His godfather.
His father’s closest attorney.
The man who taught Alessandro how to sign his first acquisition agreement.
Matteo asked:
“Enough?”
Alessandro looked toward the lake.
“No.”
“For what?”
“To accuse anyone.”
Matteo looked surprised.
The old Alessandro would have acted already.
May you like
Alessandro said:
“I want to know what ‘temporary incapacity’ they expect.”
