Chapter 2 - THE SILVER ROSARY IN THE ASHES
The moment Lorenzo’s heavy footsteps faded down the marble corridor toward the west wing, Mrs. Gable’s syrupy smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed to slits, locking directly onto Nora.
"You," Mrs. Gable hissed, marching across the foyer with terrifying speed. She grabbed Nora’s bruised wrist and yanked her toward the servants' stairwell. "Up to room 4B. Now. Mr. Moretti will visit his father before dinner. That room needs to look like a five-star suite, and if that blankets-and-scraps mess you’ve been hoarding up there is visible, I’ll tell Mr. Moretti you’ve been stealing from the estate."
Nora stumbled on the bottom step, her hand flying to her swollen belly as a sharp cramp radiated through her lower back. "Mrs. Gable, you know I haven't stolen anything. The heated blanket—"
"Is cheap trash from a discount bin, and it makes this house look like a shelter," Mrs. Gable snapped, following her up the narrow stairs. "Strip it off him. Put the silk coverlet from the linen closet over his knees, spray the lavender air freshener to hide the smell of that peasant soup you sneak up here, and disappear into the cellar until tomorrow morning."
When they reached room 4B, Mrs. Gable didn't wait for Nora to obey. She barged inside, where Giovanni sat facing the snow-swept pines outside the window, wrapped in the soft gray heated blanket Nora had bought with two weeks of saved tips.
Before Nora could stop her, Mrs. Gable ripped the plug from the wall and yanked the blanket off Giovanni’s frail shoulders.
"Stop!" Nora cried, rushing forward. "The radiator in this wing barely works! He’ll freeze!"
"He doesn't know whether he’s hot or cold, you stupid girl. He’s a vegetable," Mrs. Gable spat, tossing the blanket toward the open fireplace. The corner of the fabric caught on the iron grate, inches from the glowing embers. "Now get the silk throw on him and scrub that hearth. My sister is dying in a private clinic in Albany, and her bills cost three thousand dollars a week. I am not losing my bonus because a stray cat like you wanted to play nurse."
For a fraction of a second, the ruthless housekeeper looked almost desperate—a woman who had traded her soul to keep her own flesh and blood alive. Then her mask hardened again. She shoved a heavy brass coal bucket into Nora’s stomach and stormed out, slamming the oak door behind her.
Nora doubled over, gasping as the edge of the bucket bruised her ribs. She dropped to her knees beside the hearth, pulling her singed blanket away from the sparks. Her hands shook violently.
When she looked up, Giovanni wasn't staring out the window anymore.
His dark eyes were fixed on her face, burning with an intensity that made Nora’s breath catch. Slowly, agonizingly, his right hand—the hand that hadn't moved in five years—twitched against the rusted armrest of his wheelchair.
His gnarled fingers crept an inch forward. Then another. They hooked beneath the torn leather upholstery of the wheelchair's side pocket, pulling out a heavy, tarnished silver rosary intertwined with a heavy gold signet ring.
It dropped onto the stone floor with a loud metallic clatter.
Nora froze. "John?" she whispered, crawling closer. "You moved your hand. You... you hid this?"
She picked up the rosary. The silver crucifix was worn smooth by decades of prayer, and the gold signet ring attached to it bore the engraved crest of a roaring lion holding a dagger. Inside the band of the ring, tiny letters were etched into the gold.
To G.M. — Blood before empire. Keep her safe from the debts of the son. — C.V.
Before Nora could make sense of the inscription, Giovanni’s left hand lifted an inch off his lap. His trembling index finger pointed directly at the bottom of the heavy wooden wardrobe across the room, where a loose floorboard sat slightly raised.
Nora’s heart hammered against her ribs. This man wasn't demented. He wasn't unaware. He had been awake, watching and waiting, for years.
She hurried to the wardrobe, wedged her cracked fingernails under the oak plank, and lifted it. Beneath the floorboards lay a dusty leather ledger and a faded Polaroid photograph.
Nora picked up the photograph, tilting it toward the firelight. It showed a younger Giovanni standing beside a bruised, terrified young man kneeling on a warehouse floor.
Nora dropped the photo as if it had burned her skin.
May you like
The kneeling man in the photograph was Brody—the father of her baby. And written across the bottom of the Polaroid in fresh black ink, dated only three months ago—the exact night Brody had vanished—were four words in neat, ruthless handwriting: Paid in full. — L.M.
Heavy footsteps echoed outside in the corridor. The brass doorknob of room 4B began to turn, and Lorenzo Moretti’s cold, low voice sounded from the hallway: "Clear the floor. I want ten minutes alone with my father."
