His Ring on Her Finger, My Name on the Door novel · Chapter 2 of 32
Chapter 2: The Paper
Francesca finds her forged signature on a renunciation of her name and shares, witnessed by Michael, and her mother slaps her at the graveside and tells her to go back to Paris.
Francesca took the paper out of her sister's hand.
Claudia let it go easily.
It was one page, typed.
"I, Francesca Ruggiero, renounce the Ruggiero name in all family matters, and give up my share of Ruggiero Holdings to my sister, Claudia Ruggiero DeMarco."
The date at the top was October 2nd, 2023.
The day she left.
Her signature sat at the bottom, slanted and neat.
A notary's stamp was pressed beside it.
Under that, a second line said "Witness."
The name on it was Michael DeMarco.
She knew his handwriting better than her own.
The hard M. The R that looked like a fishhook.
She looked up at him.
He was looking at the bronze door.
"I never signed this," Francesca said.
The two men polishing the door stopped polishing.
Claudia's smile went sad.
"Francesca, please. Not here. Not in front of Papa."
"I was on a plane that morning. I never signed anything."
"You were upset." Claudia's voice was very gentle. "You said you wanted nothing from us. You said it at the table, in front of everyone."
"I said nothing at the table. I dropped a glass."
Claudia pressed her palm flat against her chest.
She drew a short breath, then another, quicker.
"Michael." She reached for his arm. "I can feel it starting."
He caught her elbow without looking away from the door.
Francesca had seen this a thousand times.
At birthday parties. At Christmas. The night Francesca got her acceptance letter and their father opened champagne.
Every time Francesca raised her voice, Claudia's heart raced.
Every time Claudia's heart raced, the room turned on Francesca.
"Breathe," Francesca said flatly. "You're fine."
A car door slammed down the slope.
Her mother came up the path in a black wool coat and pearls, her heels sinking in the wet grass.
She hadn't changed.
The same dyed black bob. The same tight mouth.
She went straight to Claudia and took her face in both hands.
"Sweetheart. Sit down. Where are your pills?"
"I'm fine, Mama." Claudia's eyes filled. "Francesca's upset about the paper."
Her mother turned around.
She looked at Francesca's coat, then at the suitcase still standing by Michael's car.
"Three years," her mother said. "Not one call. And the first thing you do is upset your sister at your father's grave."
"Mama, I didn't sign this. Somebody forged it."
The slap came so fast Francesca didn't see it.
Her cheek went hot.
One of the workmen dropped his rag.
"Your sister has a heart condition," her mother said. "And she is carrying this family. What are you carrying?"
Francesca's ears were ringing.
She didn't touch her face.
She held up the page instead and turned to Michael.
"Is this your signature?"
Claudia answered for him. "Of course it is. He was there."
"I asked him."
Michael finally looked at her.
His eyes went to the red mark on her cheek and stayed there.
A muscle moved in his jaw.
"Yes," he said. "I signed it."
The roses were still in her other hand.
She'd forgotten she was holding them.
"You watched me sign this?"
He didn't answer that.
"Get in the car, Claudia," he said instead.
"Michael, I want to stay for..."
"Get in the car."
Claudia pressed her lips together.
She looked from him to Francesca, and something sharp moved behind her wet eyes.
Then she lowered her head and walked down the slope.
Her mother stayed.
She took a pair of leather gloves out of her pocket and pulled them on one finger at a time.
"Since you've been away," she said, "let me tell you how things stand."
"Mama."
"Your father left his half of everything to you and half to Claudia. You threw yours away. The elders voted your shares to your sister last November."
Francesca felt the paper bend in her fist.
"You let them?"
"I didn't let anyone. You did it yourself." Her mother smoothed her coat. "Your name isn't on that door because you took it off."
The bronze letters shone behind her.
Benedetto. Her mother. Claudia. Michael.
Four names, and room under them for more.
"You'll stand at the back on Saturday," her mother said. "You'll lay your flowers if you must. The captains will see you came."
She stepped closer and lowered her voice.
"And after Saturday, you'll go back to Paris. There's nothing here for you anymore."
She walked down the hill without waiting for an answer.
Michael stood there a moment longer.
He held out his hand for the paper.
Francesca folded it in half and put it in her own coat pocket.
"No," she said.
He let his hand drop.
"Francesca. Let me take you to the hotel."
"You've done enough."
She walked past him to the temporary vault.
It was a low concrete building at the edge of the cemetery with a number on the door.
Number fourteen.
That was where they'd kept her father for three years.
She laid the white roses on the step.
Behind her, she heard Michael's car start and pull away.
She stood there until the engine faded.
Then she took out her phone and opened the email from July.
At the bottom of it, under her father's old aide's signature, was a phone number in Revere.
She called it.
He answered on the first ring.
"Miss Francesca," the old man said. "You're here."
"Nino. Did you know about the paper?"
There was a long silence on the line.
"Not on the phone," Nino Ferrante said. "Tell me where you're staying. And don't take any car Michael sends."
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