Chapter 5 - THE NIGHT SOMEONE TRIED TO BURN THE BENNETT FILES
Three days later, someone set fire to an archive room.
Not the estate.
A Moretti Logistics records facility outside Milan.
The call came at 2:13 in the morning.
I knew because I was awake.
Jet lag had finally surrendered, but my brain had not.
I was in a guest room larger than my entire first apartment, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Luca’s hands.
Not productively.
Then sirens passed somewhere beyond the estate gates.
Five minutes later, footsteps moved through the hallway.
I opened my door.
Elena emerged from another room wearing silk pajamas and carrying her phone.
“What happened?”
She glanced at me.
“Fire.”
“Where?”
“Records facility.”
My stomach tightened.
“Bennett?”
“We don’t know.”
Then Luca appeared at the end of the hall.
No jacket.
White shirt.
Dark trousers.
He looked less like a Mafia boss and more like a very large man who had been woken up furious.
“Elena, stay here.”
She folded her arms.
“No.”
Luca stopped.
Sibling dynamics transcend organized crime.
“You do not need to come.”
“Neither do you.”
“I own the facility.”
“And I oversee foundation compliance records stored there.”
He looked toward me.
I raised both hands.
“Do not involve the baker in this argument.”
Elena smiled.
Luca looked deeply unimpressed.
Then his expression became serious.
“Sophia.”
“What?”
“Your father’s original loan correspondence was transferred there yesterday for review.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Independent counsel requested physical archives.”
“And now there’s a fire.”
“Yes.”
I crossed my arms.
“Coincidence?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer mattered.
No dramatic certainty.
No immediate enemy.
Just facts.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
I stared.
Elena stared.
Luca realized his mistake.
He exhaled.
“It may not be safe.”
“That is different from no.”
His jaw tightened.
I continued.
“If documents involving my family were inside, I want to know what happened.”
He looked toward Marco, who had appeared behind him.
Marco said:
“Fire is contained. Police and fire investigators are on site.”
Luca looked back at me.
“Fine.”
No entourage of armed men.
One SUV.
Marco drove.
Elena sat in front.
Luca and I sat in back.
For forty minutes, nobody spoke.
At the facility, smoke still hung above one corner of the building.
Firefighters moved through open loading doors.
Police tape blocked the archive wing.
Luca did not cross it.
That impressed me more than it should have.
He spoke to the fire commander.
Then an attorney.
Then the facility manager.
The fire had begun in an electrical panel near one archive room.
Possible accident.
Possible tampering.
Too early.
Most records were protected by fire doors.
Some smoke and water damage.
Backups existed.
Again, not cinematic.
Important.
Elena asked:
“Which boxes were closest?”
The manager checked a list.
Then his face changed.
“Bennett.”
Of course.
My stomach tightened.
Luca looked at him.
“Anything else?”
“Harbor Table.”
“Cold-chain acquisition.”
“And some Vittorio project correspondence.”
Interesting.
Not proof.
Pattern.
Luca’s jaw tightened.
“Preserve access logs.”
“Already done.”
“Security footage?”
“Police have it.”
Good.
He was not handling it privately.
Something about that calmed me.
Then Marco approached.
“Signor Moretti.”
He held a tablet.
“Camera footage shows someone entered the archive corridor at 12:46.”
“Employee?”
“Badge belongs to Matteo Rizzi.”
Elena’s expression changed.
I did not know the name.
Luca did.
“Vittorio’s assistant?”
“Yes.”
The air seemed colder.
“Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“Phone off.”
Luca said nothing for several seconds.
Then:
“Give everything to investigators.”
Marco nodded.
No order to find him.
No men dispatched.
At least not in front of me.
I looked at Luca.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face says something.”
“I’m learning your faces too.”
“Dangerous.”
“Apparently.”
Then a firefighter approached carrying a blackened plastic document bin.
“We recovered this from the archive room.”
Inside were water-damaged folders.
One label remained readable.
BENNETT / HARBOR TABLE / LAND.
My heart began pounding.
The attorney took custody.
Not Luca.
Good.
At four-thirty in the morning, we sat in a waiting room at the facility while officials finished initial interviews.
I was exhausted.
Elena had fallen asleep in a chair with her arms crossed.
Marco drank coffee somewhere outside.
Luca sat beside me.
Not close.
Enough.
“Did Vittorio do this?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he did?”
“Yes.”
That honesty startled me.
“But thinking is not evidence.”
I nodded.
“You really are trying.”
His face tightened.
“At what?”
“Not being the man everyone says you are.”
He looked at me.
“That may be the nicest insult anyone has given me.”
“I specialize.”
Silence.
Then he said:
“I should send you home.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The control thing.”
“I am not ordering.”
“You are emotionally ordering.”
“That is not a legal category.”
“It is in baker court.”
He almost smiled.
Then became serious.
“If Vittorio is desperate enough to destroy records—”
“If.”
“Yes.”
“If he is, then being near me may create risk.”
“I understand.”
“I can arrange security in Connecticut.”
“No.”
“Sophia.”
“I have survived thirty-eight wedding cakes in July heat.”
He stared.
“That comparison is insulting.”
“You have never seen buttercream collapse at an outdoor wedding.”
He shook his head.
I continued.
“I’m not pretending this isn’t serious.”
“I’ll take reasonable precautions.”
“But I decide where I go.”
Luca looked at me for a long moment.
Then:
“Agreed.”
Again.
He said it even when it hurt.
The investigation moved quickly over the next forty-eight hours.
Matteo Rizzi was located in Verona.
He had not fled the country.
He claimed he entered the archive room to retrieve documents Vittorio requested.
He denied starting the fire.
The electrical panel had signs of deliberate tampering, according to preliminary findings.
But who tampered with it remained under investigation.
Then Matteo’s phone changed everything.
Messages.
Vittorio:
Remove Bennett integration drafts before independent counsel sees them.
Matteo:
Everything?
Vittorio:
Anything showing Harbor Table pressure or Sophia condition.
Sophia condition.
There it was.
Not marriage.
Not person.
Condition.
Matteo responded:
Archive transfer already logged.
Vittorio:
Then fix it.
That message did not prove arson.
But it proved intent to destroy or conceal records.
Luca’s lawyers moved.
Corporate board.
Authorities.
Independent investigation.
Vittorio was suspended from every family company.
His office access terminated.
Several civil and criminal questions opened.
Luca did not decide his uncle’s guilt alone.
He let systems do it.
That mattered to me more than I wanted.
Then my father called.
He had received the recovered correspondence.
One email was between him and Vittorio.
Dad had written:
Sophia will not agree if she thinks the land is already part of the transaction.
Vittorio replied:
Then don’t give her the transaction. Give her the consequence.
I read it twice.
My father knew enough to know I would object.
He helped keep it from me.
That hurt differently than desperation.
I called him.
He answered crying.
“I am sorry.”
I had never heard my father cry like that.
Not even at Mom’s funeral.
“I let fear turn you into a solution.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to fix that.”
“You don’t.”
Silence.
“You rebuild.”
“How?”
“Start by sending me every financial statement.”
He laughed through tears.
“You sound like your mother.”
“Good.”
“She terrified auditors.”
“I remember.”
We created a new Bennett board structure within a month.
Independent CFO.
Outside restructuring adviser.
I took a formal board seat.
My aunt finally attended meetings instead of signing whatever Dad put in front of her.
The company was still in danger.
But it was ours to save or lose honestly.
Then came the land.
Moretti Logistics still wanted it.
Without coercion, the project was actually attractive.
That annoyed me.
Their proposal valued the property at almost twice what I expected.
Bennett could contribute only part of the acreage, retain the original production building, receive cash plus a minority stake in the cold-chain venture, and gain a long-term distribution contract.
A genuinely good deal.
Which made Vittorio’s tactics even more stupid.
“He could have just asked,” I said.
Luca sat across from me in the library.
“Yes.”
“I might have said yes.”
“I know.”
“Do men in your family have an allergy to ordinary negotiation?”
“Generational.”
I smiled.
We spent three weeks reviewing the proposal.
With separate lawyers.
Separate financial advisers.
No marriage connection.
At the final meeting, I signed.
Not because Luca asked.
He did not.
Because it helped Bennett survive.
My father signed.
My aunt signed.
Independent directors approved.
Moretti’s board approved.
Clean.
Boring.
Beautiful.
Afterward, Luca and I stood outside the conference room.
“Well,” I said.
“You got the land.”
“Part of it.”
“And nobody had to marry anyone.”
“Revolutionary.”
He looked down at me.
I looked up.
Always up.
“You leave tomorrow.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
My month in Italy had become five weeks.
Bennett needed me home.
My bakeries needed me.
My life existed in Connecticut.
Luca’s existed here.
The truth between us sat uncomfortably in the middle.
“I’ll miss you,” I said.
His face changed.
He did not respond immediately.
Then:
“I’ll miss you too.”
No dramatic declaration.
No demand I stay.
That made leaving harder.
I looked at his shirt.
The same type of immaculate white shirt I had almost ripped off him with my suitcase on the first day.
“I still haven’t decided if I like you.”
“Five weeks seems inefficient.”
“I’m cautious.”
“You fell on me within thirty seconds of arriving.”
“Physical coordination and emotional decision-making are separate departments.”
He smiled.
Then I asked:
“Why haven’t you kissed me?”
His entire body went still.
I had done it again.
Nervous talking.
Except I was not nervous.
Not entirely.
Luca looked toward the open library door.
Then back.
“Because you came here thinking you had to marry me.”
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“I don’t want the first thing between us that feels like marriage to happen before I know you feel free to leave.”
That was the moment.
Not the money.
Not the estate.
Not the size.
Not the danger.
That.
I stepped closer.
“I leave tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“So today I’m free.”
His eyes darkened.
“Sophia.”
“I’m still leaving.”
“I know.”
“I’m still not promising anything.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Then I grabbed his shirt.
Again.
This time on purpose.
And kissed him.
For a man six-foot-six, Luca Moretti could become remarkably still.
Then one hand came to my waist.
Not pulling.
Waiting.
I leaned closer.
Permission.
Only then did he kiss me back.
Slow.
Careful.
Nothing like a man accustomed to taking.
Everything like a man terrified of being mistaken for one.
When we separated, I looked up.
“Well.”
His voice was rough.
“Your suitcase had more confidence.”
I laughed against his chest.
May you like
The next morning, I flew home.
And for the first time since this story began, nobody had sent me anywhere.
