"I thought a clean break was better," Matteo says. "For all of us."
"You decided that," Santos says. "Alone. Without asking either of us."
Matteo says nothing.
"You didn't just leave money, Matteo." Santos's voice has dropped to something low and controlled that is worse than shouting. "You took away her choice to reach us. You made that decision for her and for us and you did it without saying so."
Matteo's jaw tightens once.
"I know," he says.
It is the first time I have heard those two words from him without a justification attached, and they land in the room like something final.
Matteo's fingers stop on the folder. Santos stops smiling. Small things tell truths before mouths do, and both of them just told me everything.
I look at Matteo.
Slowly.
Then it dawns on me, because he has guilt written all over his face.
"What was in the note?"
His jaw tightens once.
"I handled it."
"That wasn't the question."
Fuck. What did he write?
"We agreed Vegas was a mistake."
Santos sits forward. "Also not the question."
I don't raise my voice often. Don't need to. My voice drops instead, the way it does when I'm done negotiating.
"What was in the note, Matteo."
He meets my eyes.
"I left money."
Heat hits me hard enough that my collar feels too tight. Santos is on his feet before Matteo finishes the sentence, chair scraping back hard against the marble floor.
"You did what."
The words land flat and sharp, the way Santos gets when the charm burns off completely and what's underneath comes through instead.
Matteo sets his espresso down with the careful precision of a man who has already decided how this conversation ends and refuses to be moved by anything as inconvenient as emotion.
"It was generous."
"You left her money, Matteo. Like she was something purchased."
"The responsible thing under the circumstances."
Matteo doesn't back up an inch.