Three days passed without incident.
Lina arrived at the villa at eight in the morning, worked until six in the evening, and returned to her apartment in the car Dante sent for her. An almost normal routine—if it were possible to call working under armed surveillance, on the property of a mafia boss, over a diary that had already cost at least one life normal.
On the third morning, she managed to separate two pages that had been fused together for centuries. The process took four hours, a scalpel blade, controlled steam, and a patience bordering on obsession. When the sheets finally came apart, revealing the intact handwriting beneath, Lina felt that quiet pleasure only restorers knew—the pleasure of returning to the world something time had tried to erase.
She photographed every detail. Cataloged it. Took notes.
And avoided looking at page seventeen.
*Not yet. I need to understand the context before I touch the code.*
She was so focused that she didn't notice Tomás standing in the doorway until he cleared his throat.
“Mr. Monteverdi wants to see you.”
Lina removed her gloves without hurrying.
“Now?”
“Now.”
Dante's office was on the second floor—a room Lina hadn't seen yet. Walls lined with books, a mahogany desk that looked as though it had survived two world wars, and behind it, a panoramic window overlooking the gardens and, beyond them, the hills fading into the horizon.
Dante stood with his back to the door, the phone pressed to his ear. He spoke Italian too quickly for Lina to follow—but she caught fragments. *Impossibile. Chi ha parlato? Quando?*
When he hung up, he didn't turn around immediately. He stood there for several seconds, staring out the window, and Lina noticed something she hadn't seen before: tension. In his shoulders, along his jaw, in the way he gripped the phone far too tightly.
Then he turned. His face was perfectly calm.
*He hides everything,* Lina thought. *He hides it like someone locking a vault.*
“Sit down,” Dante said.
“I'd rather stand.”
He looked at her for a moment. Then he pulled out the desk chair and sat down himself, as if her preference were irrelevant to what came next.
“Someone talked,” he said. “One of the families knows there's a restorer working on the diary. They don't have your name yet, but it's only a matter of days.”
Lina's stomach clenched, but she kept her voice steady.
“How did they find out?”
“How doesn't matter. What matters is what happens now.”
“And what happens now?”
Dante rested his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers together. It was a gesture Lina was beginning to recognize—he did it when he was about to say something he knew she wouldn't like.
“You can't go back to your apartment anymore.”
The silence that followed was as heavy as lead.
“No,” Lina said.
“That wasn't a request.”
“I know. That's why I'm saying no.”
Dante leaned back in his chair. There was no irritation on his face—there was something worse. Patience. The patience of someone used to waiting for reality to do the convincing for him.
“Miss Marchetti, the people looking for you aren't going to knock on your door and politely ask to see the diary. They'll enter your apartment in the middle of the night. They'll use methods I prefer not to describe. And once they have what they want, they'll make sure you can't tell anyone.”
“Like they did with Conti.”
“Like they did with Conti.”
Lina crossed her arms. She knew he was right. She hated that he was right.
“And your solution is to lock me in here?”
“My solution is to keep you alive.”
“Inside a gilded cage.”
“Under my protection.”
He stood and walked around the desk. He stopped two steps away from her—close enough for Lina to catch his scent, something subtle and woody that didn't fit the conversation they were having.
“I'm going to make an announcement,” Dante said, his voice changing. It grew lower, deeper, as if he were speaking as much to himself as to her. “To all the families. I'll declare that you're under the Monteverdis' protection. That any action against you will be treated as an action against me.”
Lina felt the weight of those words. It wasn't merely a security measure. It was a political declaration. A man like Dante Monteverdi didn't put his name—the name of his entire family—in front of someone without consequences.
“Why would you do that?” she asked. “I'm a restorer. I'm not your family, I'm not your ally, I'm nothing to you.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Quick. Almost invisible.
“You're the person who's going to decipher the diary. That makes you the most valuable person in this house.”
*Valuable. Not important. Valuable.*
Lina noted the difference and tucked it away.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I'll respect your decision. And tomorrow morning I'll send Tomás to collect the diary and return you to your life.” He paused. “But the other families already know that someone is working on it. Refusing my protection won't make that information disappear.”
It was a perfect trap. Not because Dante had built it—but because circumstances had built it, and he was simply showing her the walls.
Lina looked out the window. The hills were golden beneath the afternoon sun. Somewhere out there, people were living normal lives. Going to the market, complaining about traffic, having dinner with their families without wondering whether someone would break down their door during the night.
She wasn't one of those people anymore.
“I have conditions,” she said.
Dante raised an eyebrow. The most expressive gesture she'd ever seen from him.
“Conditions.”
“First: I want full access to the diary. No restrictions, no supervision. If I'm going to risk my life for this work, I need to be able to actually work.”
“Granted.”
“Second: I want to be able to call whoever I want, whenever I want. No wiretaps, no monitoring.”
A nearly imperceptible pause.
“Granted. But one request: don't mention the diary, the code, or this house on your calls. Not for my sake. For the sake of the people you speak to.”
Lina swallowed hard. He was right. If Sofia knew too much, she'd be in danger too.
“Third,” she said, and this time she looked directly into his eyes. “I want the truth. About the diary, about Conti, about the families. Everything. If I discover you've hidden anything from me, I'm leaving. Protection or no protection.”
Dante held her gaze. Five seconds. Ten.
“Not every truth can be told all at once, Miss Marchetti. Some have to be earned.”
“Is that a no?”
“That means I'll tell you what I can, when I can, in the order that keeps both of us alive.”
It wasn't what Lina wanted to hear. But it was honest—brutally honest—and she recognized honesty when she saw it.
“All right,” she said. “I'll stay.”
Dante nodded. No triumph, no visible relief. Just a brief nod, as if confirming a move on a chessboard.
“Tomás will collect your things from the apartment. Make a list of what you need.”
“I can—”
“No. From now on, you don't go back there.”
The sentence fell like a door slamming shut.
The room they gave her was on the second floor, at the end of a silent hallway. It was beautiful—a wide bed, white sheets, an antique dresser, and a window overlooking the same garden she could see from the dining room.
But it was a cage. No matter how beautiful it was, it was a cage.
Lina sat on the bed and called Sofia.
“I'm going to be away for a while,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “The restoration work is bigger than I thought. I need to stay on-site.”
“On-site where? Lina, what's going on?”
“Nothing. It's just a big job. A few weeks' worth.”
“You're lying. I know what your voice sounds like when you lie.”
“Sofia. Please. Trust me.”
A long silence on the other end of the line. Then Sofia's voice, quieter:
“If you need me, call me. Anytime. Promise?”
“I promise.”
She hung up. She stared at the phone for a long time.
*Trust me.* She had asked Sofia for exactly what Dante was asking of her. Trust without explanation. Faith without proof.
The irony was almost cruel.
Someone knocked on the door. Two sharp raps. Tomás.
Lina opened it. He was holding a paper bag.
“Mr. Monteverdi sent this up.”
Inside was an ivory silk blouse, dark tailored pants, and a handwritten note in precise, slanted script:
*So you won't have to eat dinner dressed for restoring parchment.*
*—D.*
Lina stared at the note longer than she should have. Then she folded the paper, put it in her pocket, and closed the door.
She didn't smile.
But she wanted to.