Page 27 of The Bonventi Secret
The handwriting is distinctly masculine, a hurried scrawl that speaks of impatience when writing:
"Maybe you'll find these useful."
I turn the note over to see if there's more, but nothing is written on the back.
Confusion mingles with a reluctant spark of interest. I scan the row of books before me, and my confusion is lost to my overwhelming interest. These aren't just any books—they're Victorian lit books. My area of focus. My passion.
As I start to look over them, one, in particular, stands out, a red hardcover with gold embossing.
Emily Brontë'sWutheringHeights.
I reach for it, my heart pounding.
It can't be. It simply can't.
The weight of the book in my hands feels significant. I open it carefully, the scent of aged paper wafting up to me. My eyes widen as I take in the title page, and I whisper without thinking, "Holy fuck."
It's a first edition. An actual, honest-to-god first edition ofWuthering Heights.My mind reels, unable to comprehend the value—both monetary and academic—of what I'm holding.
After a few moments, I place it back on the shelf, as gently as possible. My fingers brush against the spines of the other books, and I feel a surge of excitement coursing through my veins. I can't help but wonder what other treasures this library holds.
I next spot a familiar name—Charles Dickens. My heart leaps as I gently pull out the first of three volumes ofGreat Expectations.
I open it with shaking hands and see the publication date: 1861.
Another first edition.
"Fucking hell," I say out loud.
I clutch the book to my chest. It's as if I'm holding a piece of history, a tangible connection to the literary world I've devoted my life to studying.
My gaze continues to roam the shelves, and I spot more familiar names: Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Oscar Wilde.
I reach for the slim black and gold book, recognizing it asThe Picture of Dorian Gray,the very novel I was reading earlier today.
As I open it, I see something I've never seen in person before.
'Of this edition, only 250 copies have been printed, of which this is No. 2.'
And below, it makes my heart stop.
"To my dearest friend, may this tale of beauty and corruption serve as a reminder of our own fleeting youth.
Yours always,
Oscar Wilde
P.S. No.1 belongs to me."
Oh my fucking god, Wilde's own handwriting. The academic in me is screaming with joy, while another part of me is trying to comprehend the value of what I'm holding.
As my initial shock subsides, a nagging thought creeps into my mind. Why does Enzo have these books? Does he truly appreciate their value, or are they just status symbols to him?
I think back to our conversation at dinner, his insistence that he respects intelligence and achievement. Is this his way of proving that? Or is it just another manipulation, another way to try and win me over?
I close the book gently, placing it back in its spot. My eyes roam over the shelves again, wondering what other treasures they might hold. There's more, but I'm just too overwhelmed.
Despite my best efforts, I feel my resolve weakening. "Damn you, Enzo," I mutter, rubbing my forehead. "Damn you for knowing exactly how to get to me."
