Part 3: House Rules and Other Fiction
The next morning, Allegra found a typed sheet on her breakfast plate.
HOUSE RULES.
She read the first three lines.
“No entering the east wing without an escort. No leaving the estate without security. No accessing restricted business files.”
Edoardo sat opposite her, reading the financial pages.
“Reasonable precautions.”
“Do you have one about breathing?”
He lowered the newspaper.
“Allegra.”
“Because I’d hate to inhale without written permission.”
“The east wing contains sensitive records.”
“Then don’t leave them in a house occupied by a woman who solves financial crimes for a living.”
“I thought you were a forensic accountant.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He studied her over his coffee.
“Did you sleep?”
“Your pillows are too soft.”
“I’ll replace them.”
“Your mattress is too firm.”
“That too.”
“And there’s a man with a gun outside my bedroom.”
“That’s security.”
“He offered to carry my toothbrush.”
“Was he polite?”
“Extremely. It’s unsettling.”
Edoardo folded the newspaper. “You may work in the west office. You’ll have copies of the accounts relevant to the forged identity.”
“All of them?”
“All relevant ones.”
“Define relevant.”
“Allegra.”
“It’s a perfectly respectable word.”
He pushed a second folder towards her.
Three women. Three identities used to register shell companies. One missing, one living under protection, one dead after a suspicious car crash.
Allegra’s smile faded.
“Why show me these?”
“Because this isn’t only about your father. Somebody has built a system for borrowing real lives and discarding the people attached to them.”
She looked again at the photographs.
The dead woman was twenty-six.
“I want their names, their histories and every account connected to them.”
“You’ll have them.”
“Without a house rule?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
She glanced up. “You really are terrible at flirting.”
His expression changed.
“Was that flirting?”
“Not successfully.”
By afternoon Allegra had identified a repeating payment pattern. Small sums were moved through charities and consultancy invoices, then pooled into an account associated with a property company called Bellandi Holdings.
She called Edoardo.
“You’re going to hate this.”
“I’ve been married to you for twenty-four hours. I’ve developed resilience.”
“The account linked to the women was opened using my identification. The original application was submitted in person.”
“You were at university then.”
“Exactly. Somebody stood in a bank pretending to be me.”
“Can you identify her?”
“Not yet. But I found a photograph from a charity gala. There’s a woman in the background who looks like my reflection with better posture.”
“Send it.”
Allegra did.
Edoardo went silent.
“Edoardo?”
“Where did you find this?”
“Why?”
“Because the woman standing beside her is Marco Bellandi’s private secretary.”
“Then we’re getting somewhere.”
“Don’t leave the estate.”
She sighed. “You spoil every promising conversation.”
“Allegra, listen to me.”
Something in his voice stopped her.
“What’s wrong?”
“A man entered your mother’s building last night. He wasn’t a resident.”
Allegra was already standing.
“Is she all right?”
“Security saw her leave for the market this morning. I have people checking now.”
“You had people watching my mother?”
“Yes.”
“You might have mentioned that.”
“You’d have objected.”
“I am objecting.”
“Noted.”
She heard him speak to someone else.
Then a pause.
A long one.
“Edoardo?”
When he answered, his voice had gone cold.
“Her flat’s empty. The door was forced.”
Allegra gripped the desk.
“Where is she?”
“We’re finding out.”
“You’d better.”
“I will.”
She hung up and grabbed her coat.
The armed guard outside the office stepped into her path.
“Mrs Falcone, you’re not permitted—”
“Finish that sentence,” Allegra said, “and I’ll make sure my husband assigns you to toothbrush duty for the rest of your career.”
He moved.
