“He’d prefer that you come with me.”
“I prefer walking in the opposite direction.”
The faintest crease appeared between his brows.
“Miss—”
“Amelia.”
He waited.
I sighed. “Amelia Hart.”
“Miss Hart.”
“I’m not interested in meeting him.”
It was not entirely true.
Of course I was curious. Anyone with a pulse would have been curious about Lorenzo Duca. But curiosity and interest were not the same thing, and I had spent enough of my life confusing the two.
The bodyguard glanced over his shoulder.
Lorenzo had not moved.
Even from a distance, I could feel his attention fixed on us.
“May I ask why?” the bodyguard said.
“Because I don’t know him.”
“That’s usually why people meet.”
“Usually, they meet because they want something from each other.”
“And you don’t want anything from Mr. Duca?”
“Not today.”
The answer seemed to amuse him.
“Today?”
“I like to keep my options open.”
For the first time, the bodyguard almost smiled.
He reached into the inside pocket of his linen jacket and withdrew a small cream-colored card.
“There’s a number on the back. If you change your mind.”
I looked at the card but didn’t take it.
“Does he hand those out often?”
“No.”
“Then I’m honored.”
“He doesn’t hand them out at all.”
That made me look at him.
Behind him, the lake glittered in the late afternoon sun. The beach was still crowded, but the noise had become a distant blur. I could hear the soft slap of water against the shore and the rustle of wind through the tall grasses near the property line.
“What exactly does he want?” I asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“That’s convenient.”
“He said he wanted to speak with you.”
“About?”
“He didn’t say that either.”
“Your boss sounds very specific.”
This time, the bodyguard did smile. It was brief, reluctant, and gone before I could decide whether I’d imagined it.
“Mr. Duca is usually specific.”
“Then he can be specific with someone else.”
I turned to walk away.
“Miss Hart.”
I stopped.
The bodyguard’s voice had changed. Not harsher. Just more careful.
“He also asked me to tell you that you’re not in trouble.”
I looked back at him.
“Was I supposed to think I was?”
“No.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because most people assume the worst when someone from Mr. Duca’s security team approaches them.”
“Most people have better instincts than I do.”
His gaze shifted briefly toward the cabana.
“No,” he said. “I think your instincts are very good.”
Before I could ask what that meant, a familiar voice came from behind him.
“Matteo.”
The bodyguard straightened slightly.
Lorenzo had left the cabana.
The three women had not followed him. They were watching from a distance, their expressions arranged somewhere between confusion and irritation. My friend Claire sat beside them, pretending to examine the contents of her beach bag while failing spectacularly to conceal her interest.
Lorenzo walked toward us alone.
He had removed his jacket, leaving him in a white shirt with the sleeves folded neatly to his forearms. The change should have made him look more approachable.
It didn’t.
Some people carried authority because they demanded it. Lorenzo seemed to carry it because the world had grown accustomed to making room for him.
“Matteo,” he said again.
The bodyguard stepped aside.
Lorenzo’s eyes settled on me.
“Miss Hart.”
“You know my name.”
“I do now.”
“You sent someone to find it.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I try to be.”
I looked toward the cabana. “You also sent someone to ask me to come over.”
“I did.”
“And now you’ve come over here instead.”
“I thought it would save time.”
“Your time?”
“Both of ours.”
I folded my arms. “I’m not sure what you want from me.”
“Neither am I.”
That answer caught me off guard.
He said it without embarrassment, as though uncertainty was simply another fact he was willing to state aloud.
“You approached me without knowing what you wanted?”
“I noticed you.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The wind lifted a loose strand of my hair, and I pushed it behind my ear. Lorenzo watched the movement with such focused attention that I became suddenly aware of everything—my bare feet, the sand clinging to my ankles, the burgundy dress I had chosen because it was comfortable rather than flattering.
I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.
Most men looked for an invitation.
Lorenzo looked as if he were trying to understand a locked door.
“Do you always question strangers on the beach?” I asked.
“Only the ones who walk away from me.”
“I didn’t walk away from you.”
“You walked away after noticing me.”
“I walked away because the beach was quieter.”
“Was it?”
I glanced toward the three women behind him.
“Not anymore.”
A hint of amusement touched his mouth.
It changed his face more than I expected. The severity eased, revealing someone younger beneath the reputation, someone who might once have laughed easily before learning that people listened more carefully when he didn’t.
“Are you always this direct?” he asked.
“Only when I’m tired.”
“And are you tired now?”
“Of this conversation? A little.”
His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but consideration.
Most men with his reputation would have disliked being spoken to that way. They would have turned the moment into a contest, pressing harder simply to prove they could.
Lorenzo did the opposite.
He stepped back.
“Then I’ll let you go.”
I blinked.
“That’s all?”
“For now.”
“People usually don’t bring bodyguards to say ‘for now.’”
“Matteo is here because I brought him.”
“Not because of me?”
“Not because of you.”
There was no threat in his voice. If anything, there was a quiet attempt to reassure me.
I studied him.
The newspapers called Lorenzo Duca a businessman. Chicago called him something else. But standing there with the lake behind him and sunlight catching the edge of his dark hair, he didn’t look like the cold, untouchable man people whispered about.
He looked tired.
Not physically. Tired in the way people became when too many others wanted something from them.
That was the first thing about him I understood.
The second was that he did not seem accustomed to being refused.
“I’m going back to my room,” I said.
“Are you staying at the resort?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
I gave him a flat look.
He immediately nodded once. “That was poorly worded.”
“Very.”
“With a friend?”
“Yes.”
“Then I hope you enjoy your evening.”
“And I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
His attention sharpened.
“What makes you think I’m looking for something?”
“You asked who I was.”
“I was curious.”
“Curiosity is usually looking for something.”
He held my gaze for another second.
Then he said, “Perhaps.”
I turned away before he could see that the answer had unsettled me.
Claire was already waiting near the path leading back to the resort, trying so hard to appear casual that she nearly tripped over a beach towel.
She grabbed my arm as soon as I reached her.
“Please tell me you did not just reject Lorenzo Duca to his face.”
“I didn’t reject him.”
“You told his bodyguard that he could be specific with someone else.”
“You heard that?”
“Everyone heard that.”
I glanced back.
Matteo had returned to the cabana. Lorenzo remained near the water, watching us leave.
“I didn’t realize I was speaking loudly.”
“You weren’t. You were speaking with conviction.”
“Is that a crime?”
“With Lorenzo Duca? Possibly.”
We walked toward the resort, our feet sinking into the warm sand.
Claire kept looking over her shoulder.
“Stop doing that.”
“I’m checking whether he’s following us.”
“He isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if he were following us, you would have noticed the dramatic music.”
She laughed, but the sound faded quickly.
Once we reached the stone walkway, she lowered her voice.
“Amelia, seriously. That man is dangerous.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because I know people who know him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s enough of one.”
Claire had grown up in Chicago. Her father owned several restaurants, two buildings, and a collection of friends who appeared whenever someone needed a favor that couldn’t be documented. She had never been frightened easily, but she understood the city’s invisible lines better than I did.
“People say his family has been involved in everything,” she continued. “Construction, shipping, politics, unions. They say half the people who owe him money don’t even know how they started owing it.”
“People say many things.”
“People don’t say those things about ordinary businessmen.”
“He didn’t ask me for money.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m not planning to marry him.”
“Good, because there are three women at the cabana who may challenge you for the position.”
I glanced at her.
Claire grinned.
“Too soon?”
“Much too soon.”
We entered the resort through the side doors. The cool air-conditioning raised goosebumps along my arms, and I immediately regretted not bringing a cover-up.
The lobby was elegant without being showy: pale stone floors, tall windows, arrangements of white flowers, and a piano no one seemed to play. Guests wandered between the restaurant and the elevators, carrying drinks and folded towels.
I expected to feel Lorenzo’s presence behind me.
I didn’t.
That should have relieved me.
Instead, I felt an odd disappointment that I refused to examine.
At the reception desk, a young woman handed me a sealed envelope.
“Miss Hart?”
I stopped.
“Yes?”
“This was left for you.”
I looked at the envelope.
There was no name on it, only my room number written in dark ink.
“Who left it?”
The receptionist glanced toward the elevators.
“One of Mr. Duca’s assistants.”
Claire’s fingers tightened around my arm.
I didn’t open it.
“Did he say what it was?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then I don’t want it.”
The receptionist looked uncomfortable. “He said Mr. Duca hoped you would read it before deciding that.”
I almost laughed.
“Does he usually send instructions to strangers?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Claire leaned toward me. “Take it.”
I gave her a look.
“What?” she whispered. “You can throw it away upstairs.”
The envelope was heavier than it should have been for a single sheet of paper.
I took it.
The receptionist offered a polite smile, relieved to be rid of it.
We rode the elevator in silence.
Claire watched the envelope as if it might begin speaking.
“You’re opening that,” she said when the doors closed.
“No.”
“You’re absolutely opening that.”
“I’m not interested in encouraging him.”
“Then consider it research.”
“I don’t conduct research on men who send bodyguards after me.”
“You do tonight.”
I slid one finger beneath the seal.
Inside was a single card.
No message.
No invitation.
Just a name.
Elena Marlowe.
The elevator continued upward.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Claire noticed immediately.
“Amelia?”
I stared at the name until the letters blurred.
“What is it?”
I folded the card in half.
“Nothing.”
“That is not the face people make when they receive nothing.”
The elevator chimed.
We stepped into the hallway, but I didn’t move toward our room.
Elena Marlowe had been my mother’s name.
Not the name she used after marrying my father. Not the name on her driver’s license or the few legal documents I had kept after she died.
Her maiden name.
A name I had never told anyone at the resort.
A name I had barely spoken aloud in fifteen years.
Claire’s expression changed when she saw my face.
“Is that your mother?”
I nodded.
“What does Lorenzo Duca know about her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she know him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Amelia.”
“I said I don’t know.”
The sharpness in my voice silenced her.
I regretted it immediately.
My mother had been gone since I was nineteen. Even now, grief lived in strange places—inside old songs, certain perfumes, the sight of a woman tying her hair the way my mother used to. I had learned to carry it quietly, but quiet did not mean healed.
Claire softened.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked down at the card.
The ink was black, precise, and unmistakably deliberate.
“Why would he know her name?”
“Maybe someone told him.”
“Who?”
“You said you didn’t tell him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Maybe he found it.”
The thought made my stomach tighten.
My mother had not been famous. She had worked as an accountant for a small import company near the river, then spent the last years of her life managing a bookstore in Evanston. She had kept to herself, avoided attention, and had never once mentioned the Duca family.
At least, not to me.
But there had been things I hadn’t understood as a child.
Phone calls she took in the hallway.
Letters she locked in a wooden box.
The way she would go still whenever someone mentioned the old neighborhood near Halsted Street.
I had assumed those silences belonged to another life.
Perhaps they did.
I unlocked our room.
The moment we entered, I went straight to my suitcase. Beneath several dresses and a pair of sandals was a thin blue folder I had brought without knowing why.
Claire watched as I removed it.
“What is that?”
“Something I found in my mother’s apartment.”
“Why bring it here?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
I placed the folder on the bed.
After my mother’s funeral, I had spent weeks sorting through her things. Most of it had been ordinary—receipts, recipes, old birthday cards, photographs. But in the back of her closet, beneath a stack of winter blankets, I had found a locked wooden box.
The key was taped to the underside of her desk drawer.
Inside were six letters, a black-and-white photograph, and a small brass medallion stamped with a symbol I didn’t recognize.
I had read the letters only once.
They had been written before I was born, all signed with the initials L.D.
My mother had never explained them.
She had never had the chance.
I opened the folder now.
The letters were still there, carefully folded in the same order.
Claire stood beside me, looking over my shoulder.
“L.D.,” she whispered.
I nodded.
“I thought it might be someone else.”
“Did you ever find out?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you ask your mother?”
“She died before I found them.”
The room seemed suddenly too small.
I took out the photograph.
It showed my mother in her twenties, standing beside a younger man near the lake. She wore a pale dress and held a book against her chest. The man beside her was difficult to recognize after all these years, but he had the same dark eyes, the same straight mouth, the same unmistakable stillness as Lorenzo.
Claire’s hand rose to her lips.
“That’s him.”
“No,” I said automatically.
But the denial sounded weak even to me.
The man in the photograph was younger. Perhaps eighteen or twenty. Yet there was no mistaking the family resemblance.
On the back of the photograph, written in my mother’s careful handwriting, were five words:
Lorenzo, before everything changed.
A knock sounded at the door.
Claire and I froze.
Another knock followed, quiet and patient.
I slipped the photograph beneath the folder.
“Who is it?” I called.
A woman’s voice answered from the hallway.
“Miss Hart? My name is Sofia Duca.”
Claire looked at me.
The name meant nothing.
The voice continued.
“I’m Lorenzo’s sister. I believe you have something that belonged to our family.”
I stood perfectly still.
Then she added, “And I think my brother has finally found the woman our mother spent twenty years searching for.”
