Isabella Moretti poured the Darjeeling tea with the steady hand of a woman who had been raised in the Roman political elite. The Solarium was filled with the scent of jasmine, masking the underlying tension.
“Sugar, Mr. Cross?” she asked.
“Black, thank you,” Sebastian Cross replied. He sat opposite her, his suit perfectly tailored, his eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing a cage. “It is rare to find such tranquility in a house under federal scrutiny.”
“We find peace where we can,” Isabella smiled, pushing a plate of scones toward him. “We are a resilient family.”
“Resilient,” Cross tasted the word. “Or perhaps… evasive. I’ve noticed the medical expenses for your father-in-law are quite low for a man recovering from a massive stroke in a Swiss clinic.”
Isabella didn’t flinch. “He values his privacy.”
“Does he?” Cross leaned forward, his charm sharpening into a blade. “Because I’ve audited the flight logs. The jet went to Zurich, yes. But the manifest shows it came back empty. I don’t think Alistair Croft is in the Alps, Mrs. Fotheringham. I think he is somewhere in this house, listening to the walls close in.”
Isabella took a sip of her tea, her eyes locking with his. “Be careful, Mr. Cross. Hunting ghosts is a dangerous hobby. You might not like what haunts you back.”