Another Problem

Sofia POV

At eight forty-three the morning after I tell six people I have another problem and refuse to explain it until morning, the problem walks into my office wearing navy.

Riccardo Ferrante closes the door behind him.

No associate. No client. No visible emergency.

Just Riccardo, an expensive leather folder under one arm and the expression of a man who has already decided I am going to dislike whatever is inside it.

I lean back in my chair.

“You look disappointingly alive.”

“Good morning, Sofia.”

“You called me twice during dinner.”

“You declined the first.”

“That was the appropriate response.”

“To me?”

“To interruption.”

His mouth moves at one corner.

I know that movement. It means he thinks I am being unreasonable and has decided the experience may be entertaining.

Unfortunately, I know several movements of Riccardo Ferrante’s mouth.

Most are irrelevant before nine in the morning.

He crosses my office and puts the folder directly in front of me.

Not slides.

Puts.

He stopped sliding documents toward me at university after I caught one of his case extracts with one finger and continued explaining why his argument was defective without looking down. The following week, he placed the pages exactly where I needed them.

Fourteen years later, apparently that particular accommodation remains in force.

His suit is charcoal. White shirt. Navy tie.

I know the tie.

Riccardo follows my gaze.

“You bought it.”

“Eleven years ago, under extreme circumstances.”

“It was a conference.”

“You were wearing burgundy silk with silver dots.”

“There was nothing wrong with that tie.”

“There was nothing illegal about it. Different standard.”

“You stole it from my suitcase.”

“I removed a reputational risk.”

He smiles.

There.

Most people get immaculate Riccardo. Controlled voice, excellent manners, arguments polished until the other side discovers all its exits have quietly disappeared.

I get this version.

Unfortunately, I like this version.

“You kept the replacement,” I say.

“I looked better in it.”

Arrogant bastard.

Also correct.

“What was important enough to interrupt dinner?”

“I told you.”

“You told me you had found something in an old matter and wanted me to look at it.”

“Yes.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“I was attempting one when you informed me it could wait until morning.”

“And look. Morning arrived.”

The amusement disappears.

That gets my attention.

He opens the folder and places six pages in front of me.

Fresh corporate resolution.

Venturo Medica S.p.A.

Private medical-device distributor. Refinancing. Share issue. Confirmation of authorised signatories.

I skim the first page.

“Congratulations.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You’ve discovered corporate paperwork.”

“Keep reading.”

I do.

The transaction is ordinary enough to be boring.

Then I reach the signature page.

FEDERICA SALA

Independent Director.

I stop.

The name catches somewhere older.

Aurelia Diagnostics.

A badly ventilated courtroom. Four months of emergency applications, competing valuations and emails beginning Further to our previous correspondence because apparently commercial litigators enjoy pretending the previous correspondence was insufficiently hostile.

I look up.

Riccardo is watching me.

“Aurelia.”

“Yes.”

One word rearranges the morning.

Aurelia had been a healthy medical-equipment business until it developed, with impressive efficiency, every problem necessary to make an emergency acquisition appear inevitable.

Financing pressure. Regulatory questions. Cancelled contracts. Liquidity crisis. Rescue investor.

I represented the founder and minority shareholders resisting the transaction.

Riccardo represented the financing and acquisition side.

We also lived together.

This produced certain complications not covered by professional conduct rules.

“Where did you get this?”

“Registry filing connected to a client matter.”

“Your client?”

“Counterparty to my client.”

“Useful distinction.”

“Very.”

I look at Federica’s name again.

“Why did it bother you?”

Riccardo reaches into the folder and removes another document.

Aurelia Diagnostics.

Three years old.

My exhibit number sits in the corner.

So does my handwriting.

I look at him.

“You brought my copy.”

“It was the useful one.”

“You had clean copies.”

“Yes.”

“And deliberately chose the one with my notes.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I enjoy primary sources.”

I lower my eyes.

Beside the authority section:

TOO CLEAN.

Lower down:

WHO ACTUALLY SAW HER SIGN?

And, beside one paragraph of his submission:

Ferrante knows this point is weak. Make him defend it.

Riccardo taps that line.

“You made me defend it four times.”

“You were evasive.”

“I was winning.”

“You can do both.”

“I did.”

His mouth curves.

Mine nearly does.

Aurelia had been one of the professional fractures inside a relationship already becoming difficult. Not because either of us cheated or behaved catastrophically.

Something less convenient.

His partnership was expanding. My practice was expanding. We both made decisions we assumed the other would understand.

Understanding proved to be a poor substitute for asking.

Professionally, Aurelia was simpler.

I thought the authority package was wrong.

Riccardo had certification saying it was not.

He won.

I pull the current resolution beside the old authorization.

“Show me.”

He says nothing.

Good.

Same broad F. Same compressed surname. Same downward finish.

Similar signatures mean nothing by themselves.

Then I see the hesitation.

Tiny.

Just before the final upward stroke.

I open my desk drawer and take out a magnifier.

Riccardo raises an eyebrow.

“You still have that.”

“I still read things.”

“I had heard rumours.”

I ignore him.

The Aurelia signature contains a microscopic hook where the stroke pauses before continuing.

The new signature has the same hook.

Same place.

Same angle.

I check the final stroke.

Same tiny thickening.

My irritation disappears.

That is rarely a good sign.

“How long did it take you?” I ask.

“To notice?”

“Yes.”

“Seven minutes.”

“Were you drinking?”

“No.”

“Distracted?”

“By the name.”

Fair.

Federica Sala had mattered in Aurelia because a critical authorization depended on her position as independent director.

I challenged her authority because the supporting package looked manufactured.

Not forged.

Worse, in some ways.

Perfect.

Every date aligned. Every required document existed. Every signature sat exactly where it should. Every certification answered the next obvious objection before anyone made it.

Real companies are rarely that obedient.

Someone circulates FINAL2 after FINAL3.

A director signs in blue when the closing checklist says black.

Someone initials four pages and forgets the fifth.

A shareholder changes an address and tells nobody.

Perfect documentation exists.

So does fiction.

“You remember what I said,” I say.

“You thought the file had been built backward from the transaction.”

I look up.

“That was three years ago.”

“Yes.”

“You remember that?”

“You were very convincing.”

“I was furious.”

“Also memorable.”

The memory arrives immediately.

One in the morning. Case papers spread across our kitchen counter. My blouse ruined by wine from a client dinner and one of Riccardo’s white shirts hanging halfway down my thighs because changing properly had seemed less urgent than proving the certification his side relied on was nonsense.

Riccardo barefoot, sleeves rolled, pretending to listen while looking at my legs.

“You were supposed to be paying attention.”

“I was.”

“You were staring at my thighs.”

“I can do two things.”

Heat moves through me with irritating accuracy.

“You have always overestimated yourself.”

His eyes settle on mine.

“No.”

Quiet voice.

Bad development.

“I haven’t.”

My body remembers that voice.

It also remembers exactly what his hands can do when the tie comes off and the white shirt stops being professional clothing.

Eleven months ago we established that physical memory survives separation extremely well.

One legal-industry dinner became an argument.

The argument became a taxi.

The taxi became his apartment.

In the morning, we agreed it changed nothing.

We are both excellent advocates.

The conclusion remains unsupported.

I return to the documents.

“You compared them digitally.”

“Yes.”

“So you already know what they show.”

“I know what software shows.”

“And you wanted?”

“Your view.”

“You employ associates with eyes.”

“Several.”

“Some presumably competent.”

“Two.”

I look at him.

He almost smiles.

“Why me?”

“Because you spent four months trying to destroy this authorization.”

That stops the banter.

“You knew every weak point in it. Every date. Every certification. I wanted somebody who didn’t need the history explained.”

That makes sense.

More than I want it to.

I photograph both signatures and enlarge them.

Riccardo stands and comes around my desk.

He stops beside my chair.

Too close to be accidental.

Not close enough to justify objection.

His jacket brushes the back of my chair when he leans toward the screen.

His cologne reaches me first.

Then warmth.

My body contributes several memories nobody requested.

His hand settles beside mine on the desk.

Long fingers.

Good watch.

Professionally irrelevant hands.

I remember them on my hips.

Against my throat.

Between my thighs.

I move my hand to the phone.

Riccardo notices.

Of course he does.

“Something wrong?”

“With the signatures?”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

I look up.

He is close enough that I can see the amber around his pupils.

“Sit down.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m improving my working conditions.”

His mouth curves.

“Cruel.”

“Efficient.”

He returns to the chair.

Marginal improvement.

I overlay the signatures and adjust the scale.

The strokes settle over each other.

Nearly exact.

“These were not independently written.”

“No.”

“The current one is reproduced.”

“Or both came from an earlier specimen.”

That is worse.

If Federica did not sign yesterday’s resolution, somebody is currently exercising corporate authority in her name.

If Aurelia used the same specimen, then the authorization I challenged three years ago may have been false too.

I look at Riccardo.

“You relied on it.”

“Yes.”

“The court relied on it.”

“Yes.”

His voice has gone flat.

Riccardo will exploit procedure. Timing. Commercial pressure. He will let an opponent make an avoidable mistake and use it without remorse.

He will not knowingly put false evidence before a court.

Someone may have used him to do exactly that.

“You had independent certification,” I say.

“Yes.”

“I had suspicion.”

“You had the objection.”

“Which is not evidence. If you had abandoned your client’s position because your girlfriend thought the paperwork smelled wrong, I would have considered you professionally incompetent.”

One eyebrow rises.

“Smelled wrong?”

“Do not make me regret defending you.”

“I was wondering whether I should record it.”

“You were insufferable for six weeks.”

“Until Bellacosta.”

“Until I beat you at Bellacosta.”

“You mentioned Bellacosta during sex.”

I stare at him.

“That was relevant.”

“You were naked.”

“Lawyers remain lawyers while naked.”

“I remember.”

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.

No pretending.

No apology.

Heat tightens low in my stomach.

I close the folder.

“When was this executed?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Transaction counsel circulated the signed resolution before close of business. It was filed at seven fifty-two this morning.”

I look at the date again.

“So somebody used her name yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“And put it on the public record this morning.”

“Yes.”

“Who knows?”

“One partner knows I have a concern with the authority package. Nobody knows about the Aurelia comparison.”

“Your client?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because once people hear the word fraud, they become helpful in destructive ways.”

There he is.

Not merely cautious.

Strategic.

“You want the old records preserved before anyone knows you’re looking.”

“Yes.”

I turn to my computer and open the Aurelia archive.

Three years of dormant litigation fills the screen.

Pleadings. Board materials. Appointment records. Certifications.

The case I lost.

The case he won.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Today? Nothing you aren’t entitled to give me.”

The answer comes immediately.

Privilege. Ethics. His line.

I would hate him if he crossed it.

Instead I click into the authority folder.

Riccardo stands.

I look up.

“You’re leaving?”

“I have a hearing at ten.”

I check the time.

“Then you crossed Milan before a hearing to bring me two pieces of paper.”

“Six pieces of paper.”

“That distinction is exactly why people dislike you.”

“And yet you counted.”

“You could have sent them.”

“I could have.”

“An associate could have brought them.”

“Yes.”

I look at him.

“Yet you came.”

For once, he does not answer immediately.

Interesting.

Then he looks at the handwritten note on my old exhibit.

WHO ACTUALLY SAW HER SIGN?

“I wanted to know whether you would still see the problem.”

Something shifts inside me.

“The signature?”

“The problem.”

That is different.

“At ten thirty last night, I found Federica Sala appeared in a transaction where I did not expect her. I remembered Aurelia. I remembered you refusing to let that authority go even after the certification came in.”

“You argued very effectively that I should.”

“I thought you were wrong.”

“You won.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

His eyes hold mine.

“And now I think you may have been looking at something I never saw.”

There is no apology in it.

Better.

Riccardo Ferrante admitting that his own map was incomplete is considerably rarer.

I look at the old note.

Then at the two signatures.