Backlight, page 21
She hadn't noticed the radio was on, but the throbbing backbeat of the hip-hop station was the only thing she could hear. Bruno must have heard it, too, because he punched the knob to turn it off.
"I didn't know what I wanted. I could have gone either way. I wasn't ready, but I could imagine my child. I could see myself holding her hand in the park or reading a book. I thought about what it would be like, especially if I was alone. I never thought a child would cleave him to me."
Without the radio, the car was icily silent. When she stopped speaking, the air evaporated. The street narrowed, the city’s buildings closed in on them as they drove.
"He didn't want another child. Selim. He didn't want to complicate our relationship. That's what he said. I could have realized that meant he wasn't in it for the long run, but at the time, it made sense. A child would be complicated."
"Complicated," Bruno repeated. "Complicated is a calculus problem, or a Greek text. A child isn't complicated."
They stopped at an intersection.
"How would I know? He had children, so I trusted him. I trusted that he didn't want more. I had an abortion, and even as I was walking down the hallway to do it I wasn't entirely sure. And the irony is that it did prove to be the right decision."
Bruno grabbed her chin and whipped her face toward his; he kissed her hard, deep, his left hand still on the steering wheel, his eyes open and waiting for the light to change. When the red turned green and he broke away, she was breathless.
"You were afraid to tell me?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Don't ever be afraid. I don't want you to be afraid. Why should I judge you?"
"Because you're a good man."
"You only think that."
"Tell me something awful about you. Tell me the worst thing you've ever done."
"You think that was the worst thing you've ever done?" he asked.
"Probably, yes."
"If that's the worst thing you've ever done, it's not that bad."
WITH BRUNO BACK IN Rome, Francesca’s work continued apace; she dumped photos in a shared drive for her interns to harvest for social media—with their savvy, her accounts had gained thousands of followers, and not only people waiting for her to make a mea culpa but actual photography fans. Of course, she ignored all the “DM for collab” messages, but she had made contacts that resulted in meaningful projects and actual work.
And Giulietta dove into establishing what they had come to call “Fondazione Ricci”. She’d filed the tax-exempt paperwork, drawn up articles of incorporation, and invited Francesca, Alessandro, and Bruno to their first ad-hoc board meeting, for Ale and Bruno’s sake, a video call.
Francesca joined Giulietta in the house on Via Chiostri for the meeting, after Leo’s bedtime but, with the time difference, before Ale left for work. Francesca set up her laptop in her father’s study while Giulietta opened a bottle of wine.
When they joined the call, Bruno was still at his desk. Ale joined from the kitchen of his flat, floor to ceiling windows behind him, providing a panorama of the Hong Kong skyline at dawn.
“You two look to be doing it right,” he said.
“If you had to wrestle my child to bed, you’d be having a glass of wine, too,” Giulietta replied. And then she switched to corporate mode. “Thank you both for joining; I know your schedules are full. The agenda is in the notes on this call if you need to refer, but we’ll be beginning with an unfinished item—Francie’s update on her trust.”
Francesca coughed. “I don’t have an update on the trust.”
“You were going to talk to Marco.”
“I haven’t had a chance to call him. And I was going to try to prep before I called him and I just didn’t know where to start...” her voice trailed off and she reached for her wine.
“I forgot they did that to you,” Ale said, chuckling. “Stone cold.”
“You must have lawyer friends, Francie,” Giulietta said. “It’s literally an hour, they’ll be able to help you.”
“We didn’t all go to Bocconi. I went to art school. I don’t know anyone who’s a lawyer.”
Giulietta rolled her eyes. “Ask Bruno. He knows lots. Don’t you, Bruno?”
“Whatever you need, Francie.”
“Oh, right. And you two. I miss out on all the good stuff.” Ale was smirking and Francesca wondered how Giulietta had been able to manage so many offline conversations.
“Don’t be a dick, Ale.”
“Children, children. Just to tie this up, Francie, you’re going to work with Bruno and talk to Marco and by our next meeting, we’ll have a clearer picture of the endowment. Alessandro, you’ll manage investing everything apart from our projected working capital. Francie will let you know when the funds have been transferred.” Giulietta checked a box on her notepad.
“So our official first item, now, one I think you’ll all enjoy. We need something splashy to introduce Fondazione Ricci to the city and to build a network of donors and partners. We’ve got a few months to get something onto the social calendar, and I’m sure the Garancinis can turn out all the usual suspects. But I want it to be inclusive, I want it to be accessible, I want it to be the most bang for the buck so we can reach the most people with our work.”
Francesca was impressed with her pitch. “I can head that up,” she volunteered.
“I figured,” Giulietta said. “I’m going to be busy making sure the psych network is in place to begin the organization trainings and in-school programs as soon as we have the gala—I don’t want to get people all hyped up and then not be able to offer any services for another six months. If this is going to work, we need it to start immediately.”
“The party planning will be easy compared to what you have to do,” Francesca said, though she noticed Giulietta had said gala and that seemed at odds with her goals of accessibility and inclusion.
She tried catching Bruno’s eye and winking at him, but her signal went awry, and her older brother winked back instead.
“Always good for a party, Francie. Don’t worry, I’ll bring the ASEAN contingent. Order heavy on the Suntory.”
She pulled out her phone and texted Bruno directly. I promise I’ll explain everything when I see you.
SHE AND BRUNO NEVER talked about money, which she supposed was the etiquette they’d grown up with, but it made her just as uncomfortable not talking about it as talking about it had with Paolo. He'd been so proud of the millions of euros he'd negotiated in his contract, so eager to spend them and prove his worth. Then, with Selim, she'd been a kept woman and hadn't liked it—she bristled against the idea that someone should pay for her at every turn. She was on stabler footing now. Bruno knew the state of her finances when she asked him for the €5000.
So he knew that she was serious and capable and independent. But she imagined he must be puzzled as to why she'd need a small investment from him. He hadn't been around to see the strained relationship she'd had with Anna and Marco while she was with Selim, but even if he hadn't noticed firsthand, she imagined Ricci would have told him something.
And he must know about the family trust. Anyone who knew her family that closely would have pieced together something. The relative independence with which her two older brothers and her mother moved through the world. A result of hard work and winning a genetic lottery. Millions and millions of euros.
Bruno lived more simply than her brother had—everything he had was nice, everything he did was nice. The hotel room alone from their excursion to Venice cost more than the money he'd "invested" in her—but he was hardly showy. No low-slung sports cars like Paolo, no furs and diamonds like Selim. He worked hard; he lived a modest life. If he had a trust, she couldn't tell.
She'd been stupid to sign her money away. Stupid and proud and foolish and hopelessly, painfully, intoxicated. She'd acted under the influence.
It was the kind of thing Bruno was accustomed to. He understood financial and legal matters, he could advise her. And he understood her uncle. Marco trusted him. Bruno would know how best to approach the intimidating Marco Garancini.
She'd have to tell Bruno. Admit her mistake, her bull-headedness, her short-sightedness, her poor judgment, and, worst of all, the ease with which she'd walked away from her family. All for another man.
On Friday night, she picked him up at Linate airport and drove to a small restaurant on the outskirts of town. He'd brought a bigger suitcase this time, more than just the weekend, and he'd wedged it in the hatchback of her car. They drove in silence, Francesca on tenterhooks about the trust.
He was tired. She could see it in his eyes, the wrinkles behind his glasses, a weariness she'd come to recognize. What kept him up at night? She wondered. What hours did he keep when she couldn't see?
"I owe you an explanation," she began, gripping the stem of her wineglass.
She saw a flash of fear in his eyes. Not fear, maybe. Uneasiness. He expected something awful. She'd cheated on him, she didn't love him anymore; she wanted to leave.
"It's the trust," she added quickly, "what Giulietta mentioned the other day." She paused. "It's a little embarrassing. I'm not sure how to talk about it."
She would always love the evenness of his voice, the calm, measured rationality that came through even when her mind blurred out the words. "You can talk about anything," he said.
"I know. You're open. It's me, my hesitation is with myself."
"Go on," he said. He was right—she had to get to the point or he would fear the worst, and he didn't deserve that.
"My father and Marco were equal partners. You know this, it's all common knowledge, I suppose. They controlled the entirety of the family holdings. They'd inherited it together and were equal trustees."
He nodded. Of course he'd known that, he wasn't an idiot. He did his research.
"My father was a careful man, and when he died—not that he was expecting to die, but he had a will, he was prepared, I suppose—" a wild thought flashed. Did Bruno have a will? He must. He, like her father, was a careful man. She, on the other hand, had nothing. She had no need for a will. What would she do, leave her shoes to Valeria's daughter?
"When he died, he was specific regarding the three of us. He trusted Marco implicitly, and left the execution to him. My mother, you'll imagine, had something to say about that. But it was always clear: his half of the estate, divided three ways, only accessible once we'd reached the arbitrary age of maturity he'd set at thirty."
She drank her wine slowly. He didn't speak.
"There were a few stipulations—he wanted us to graduate from college and expected Ricci and Ale to work. He didn't want them to be trust fund assholes with all that money."
"He said that specifically?"
"Not in those words, but that was his intent. He wasn't clear regarding me—I expect he thought I'd be married by the time I turned thirty. My mother was twenty-two when they married, it would have been obscene to him that I wouldn't be—so there was nothing in writing requiring me to have a job."
"But you always have."
"I love it. I like to think he would have wanted me to work, especially if he'd known I'd found a career I love. But it was so long ago, I was such a small child, he just probably wasn't thinking about it."
"Your birthday's coming up," he said.
She nodded slowly. "It is. I wish Giulietta had never mentioned it, or that Ricci had said something last year. It would have made it easier if you knew already. I wouldn't have to explain."
"He never talked about anything like this."
"No, he wasn't ever indiscreet. Anyway. It's not going to happen because my father left the execution of the trust to Marco, and to protect the family, gave Marco the power of revocation should any of us hint at going astray."
"Going astray," Bruno repeated.
"Not the exact language, but the intent. Marco and my mother used that power of revocation last year. They hated Selim. They told me I had to choose between him and the trust."
She drank again and lowered her voice, looking over her shoulder. "I had no idea what it would be worth. A couple million, maybe. I don't know much about finance, and I'd seen what Ricci and Ale had done when they inherited, it didn't seem like a big deal."
"I loved him," she continued. "I was determined to prove that I loved him and they were wrong. It wasn’t fair that Ricci and Ale could do whatever they wanted, but when it came to me, I’d be subject to all sorts of extra scrutiny because I'm a woman. And Selim was rich. I wouldn't need anyone else's money, anyway."
"You're not saying—"
She nodded. "I walked away. If that was what they were offering, I wasn't buying. When I met him to sign the papers, Marco told me the value; he said he felt it would be disingenuous not to."
Their dinner had arrived, steaming spaghetti Bolognese for each of them, a dish of grilled radicchio to share. The steam clouded Bruno's glasses as he took a bite of pasta, and she laughed as he wiped them clean.
"Do you want my advice or not?" he said in mock indignation.
"I promise, I'm serious. You know Marco, you know how to approach him, how to talk to him. He trusts you. And you know what I have to do in advance. I know it’s a shit job, but it’s important to Giulietta. The least I can do for her is figure out a way to get the money back."
“How much are we talking?”
“That’s an unseemly question.”
“Pretend I’m not the one asking. Pretend it’s the board of Fondazione Ricci. We need to know, for planning purposes.”
“You promise it’s not going to change what you think of me?”
He sat back in his chair and finished his wine, then poured more for them both. "I've gotten you dressed, Francie, when you couldn't dress yourself. I've gotten you undressed when you couldn't undress yourself. I've seen you at your best and at your worst. A few million euros won't make a damn bit of difference in how I feel about you—"
Her laughter interrupted him, and he stopped short. "A few. That's what I thought, too. Twenty-seven," she enunciated.
"Twenty-seven," he repeated, a hint of a question rising at the end of the word.
"Twenty-seven million euros. As of last summer." She exhaled. “I can do a lot of good with this money, that's what I'm intending. We’ll be able to endow the fondazione and accomplish all those things that Giulietta dreams of. We can actually save people’s lives. But first I have to convince Marco."
"You can do it. And you have to do it. I'll listen to you prep what you want to say; I’ll run everything by the lawyers so it’s an easy transfer to the fondazione, but I won't get involved with Marco. This is your money, your altruism, and your responsibility."
She swirled her wine in her glass. "All right, then."
He chuckled. "Twenty-seven million, huh? Thank God you never told anyone else. I'd have never had a chance with you. They'd have snatched you right up."
"For my money, you mean."
"For a very long list of reasons, lengthened by twenty-seven million, I imagine."
"It’s better that I’m not keeping it. I’d gotten used to the idea of living without it, anyway. I like working, and I like being able to support myself."
"I'm glad you do. I couldn't care less about the money. I only care about you."
She did stand up, now, and left her chair to sit in his lap and kiss his cheek and nestle into his warmth.
"But you're not going to help me at all? Not even a little bit?"
He kissed her forehead. "Not one bit. You're a successful businesswoman now; I'm sure you can manage yourself. And I think you're buying dinner tonight."
"You're absolutely infuriating," she replied. "I love you, you know. Even though you make more money than I do."
He didn't reply.
"Hm?" she asked. "Don't you?"
"It's crass to talk about it."
"Unseemly, you mean," she said, echoing one of his favorite words.
"Yes. Unseemly."
"I suppose it is. Almost," she whispered into his ear, "almost as unseemly as this." She snaked her hand between his legs to feel his stiffening cock. "How do you intend to make this go away?"
He waited ten, maybe fifteen seconds before speaking, and when he did, his voice was low and gravelly. "I'm going to fuck you in the car," he said into her ear.
THEY STOOD ON THE CURB; Bruno opened the passenger side door and peered into her hatchback.
"I'm not sure how this is going to work," he said. He maintained contact with her skin, touching fingertips. "Have you done this before?"
She felt her face flush, a rash of heat. "Sort of."
"I haven't. Any ideas?"
"Let's drive around the block," she said.
As she sat in the leather driver's seat and buckled her seatbelt, she felt a physical pang. She was ready. She had been ready since he’d whispered in her ear at the restaurant, since she'd felt him hard against her leg, since she registered the grimace on his face as he reached into his pocket for his phone, as if the waiting was too much for him to bear. She felt her pulsing blood at the tips of her fingers on the steering wheel, and she shifted in her seat, desperate for contact.
"If you think it's not going to work, we can just go home," he said.
She turned onto a side street, desolate, office buildings unoccupied at night.
"It'll work."
"You really have done this before," he said.
She pulled into a space between two parked cars. "Does that bother you?"
The block was dark, a lone streetlight shone at the intersection, far from where they were parked, too far to cast its light into her little car.
His pause was too long, and she broke the silence. "It didn't mean anything."
He unbuckled his seatbelt, the click of the latch releasing echoed through the car.
"Come here," he said.
She unbuckled, kicked off her shoes next to the pedals, and crawled charily over the gearshift. He reclined the seat. She faced him, crouching down to keep her head from hitting the ceiling. "I don't know where to put my legs."
