Vivian raised the strap a second time.

That’s not how it works.”

“But you did review the final list.”

“Vincent, I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“Did you review the list?”

Her jaw tightened.

“Yes.

I reviewed it.”

“And Clara Reyes was on it.”

Silence.

“You knew her name before tonight,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t remember every name on a staffing sheet.”

“You remember everything, Vivian.

That is one of the things I have always admired about you.”

She held his gaze for three full seconds.

Then she looked away — toward the ballroom doors, toward the sound of guests and music and the life she had constructed so carefully around this man and his name.

“I think you should come back inside,” she said quietly.

“I think you should tell me why Clara Reyes was on that list.”

She didn’t answer.

The ballroom doors opened at the far end of the corridor.

A man in a tuxedo leaned out — one of Vincent’s cousins, confused, searching.

“Vince?

Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Vincent said.

“Give us a moment.”

The doors closed again.

When he turned back, Vivian was already walking away — back toward the ballroom, back toward the guests, back toward the version of the evening she could still salvage.

She paused at the doors without turning around.

“Don’t do something you can’t undo,” she said.

Then she pushed through, and the music swallowed her.

Vincent stood alone in the corridor.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Marco: *Found something.

Call me when you can.

It’s not small.*

He called Marco from the far end of the corridor, his back to the ballroom doors.

“Talk to me.”

“Rosa Reyes, née Moretti.” Marco’s voice was careful — the tone he used when the news was going to cost something.

“Born 1942 in Reggio Calabria.

Emigrated to the United States in 1971.

Settled in New Jersey.

Married a man named Daniel Reyes in 1973.

One daughter — Elena, born 1975.”

“Elena Reyes.”

“Yes.

Elena never married.

One daughter — Clara, born 2001.

Elena Reyes d*ed in 2024.

Ovarian cancer.”

Vincent closed his eyes for a moment.

“And Rosa?”

“Rosa d*ed in 2004.

But here’s where it gets complicated.” A pause.

“Rosa and your mother, Lucia — they were in contact right up until Lucia’s passing in 2010.

Regular letters.

Some wire transfers.”

“My mother sent money to Rosa?”

“Starting in 1998.

Every year, without fail.

The amounts weren’t large — a few thousand each time — but they were consistent.

The last transfer went out six weeks before Lucia d*ed.”

Vincent said nothing.

“There’s more,” Marco said.

“In 2009, your mother updated her will.

There was a codicil — a separate instruction — naming Elena Reyes as a secondary beneficiary.

Not for the main estate.

For a specific asset.”

“Which asset?”

“The Calabrian property.

The old house in Brancaleone.

The one your grandfather built.”

The corridor felt smaller suddenly.

“That codicil,” Vincent said slowly.

“I never saw it.”

“No.

Because it was removed.” Marco’s voice stayed flat, professional.

“Someone filed an amendment in late 2010, two months after Lucia d*ed, removing Elena Reyes from the codicil entirely.

The amendment was notarized and filed correctly.

But the signature on the authorization—” He stopped.

“Say it.”

“It doesn’t match your mother’s other signatures from that period.

The notary who certified it retired the following year and d*ed in 2013.

There’s no one left to contest the certification.”

Vincent’s hand tightened around the phone.

“Who filed the amendment?”

“It was submitted through Castellano Legal Associates,” Marco said.

“Vivian’s father’s firm.”

The music from the ballroom was faint but steady — something bright and celebratory that had no business existing in the same building as this conversation.

“How long have you known about the Calabrian property?” Vincent asked.

“I didn’t know about the codicil until tonight.

But the property itself — it’s been in a holding dispute for eleven years.

There’s a land development application attached to it.

Filed eight months ago.”

“By whom?”

“A shell company.

But the registered agent traces back to Castellano Holdings.”

Vincent stood very still.

Eight months ago.

The same month Clara Reyes had started working through the staffing agency.

“Marco,” he said.

“The staffing agency.

Premiere Event Staff.

Find out who owns it.”

A pause.

Keyboard sounds.

“Registered to a holding trust,” Marco said.

“Give me a minute.” More sounds.

“The trust is administered by — Vincent, the trust is administered by Castellano Holdings.”

The ballroom doors opened again at the far end of the corridor.

Vivian stepped through, alone this time, her expression reset to something pleasant and patient.

She stopped when she saw his face.

Whatever she read there made her take one small step back.

“Who else knows about this?” Vincent said into the phone, quietly enough that she couldn’t hear.

“Just me,” Marco said.

“What do you want to do?”

Vincent looked at Vivian across the length of the corridor.

She was watching him with the careful stillness of someone who has spent a long time learning how to wait.

“Get me the original codicil,” he said.

“And the amendment.

Both.

Tonight.”

He hung up.

“Good news?” Vivian asked, her voice light.

“Come and find out,” he said, and walked back toward the sitting room where Clara was waiting.

Clara was standing when they came in — not sitting, not resting, just standing near the window with her arms crossed and her weight slightly forward, like someone who had learned not to get too comfortable in rooms that didn’t belong to her.

She looked at Vincent.

Then at Vivian behind him.

Her expression didn’t change, but her chin came up slightly.

Vivian closed the door.

“Sit down, Clara,” Vincent said.

“I’d rather stand.”

“So would I,” he said.

“But my legs are tired.” He pulled out a chair and sat.

After a moment, Clara took the one across from him.

Vivian remained by the door.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Vincent said to Clara.