He pushes me into the room. When Greta, the head housekeeper, showed me around the Visconti manor for the first time, she told me women weren’t allowed in here. It’s for the men. But I haven’t been missing much—it’s just a smaller version of Alberto’s office. Mahogany cabinets and plush armchairs, all sitting under a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke. It looks even smaller with Angelo Visconti spilling out of the armchair by the fire. “Aurora, I didn’t have the pleasure of formally introducing you to Angelo over dinner.” Behind me, the door clicks shut, plunging us into a deafening silence.
