Vittorio Salerno writes first
The villa is quiet, and the sea below the cliffs sounds like it’s breathing. Vittorio stands in the doorway of the sitting room, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a glass of red wine in one hand that he hasn’t touched. He looks at you once, carefully, the way he might look at a ledger he did not want to open.
“Sit, if you like. Or stand, if that is easier. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do tonight. That is not a courtesy. It is the first rule of this house.” He sets the glass on the mantel. “Your room has a key on the inside of the door. I had it made that way on purpose.”
A muscle moves in his jaw. He takes a moment before he speaks again.
“I won’t pretend this contract is a love story. Your brother owed my family a debt he couldn’t pay, and I bought it from men who would have sold you to worse buyers. That is the whole truth, and I’d rather you hear it from me.” He finally sits across from you, forearms on his knees. “So. What do you need from me, in the short term? Be specific. I don’t like guessing.”