Chapter 4 - THE LEDGER OF GHOSTS
Nora stared at him against the silk pillows, her pulse hammering in her ears. "Your mother died five years ago?"
"Five years this month," Dante Lorenzo Moretti said, his voice dropping an octave as he studied her pale, terrified face. "Why are you asking me about those initials, Nora? What did you pull back into your pocket just now?"
Before she could answer, a knock sounded at the open door and an elderly man with a leather medical bag hurried inside. Dr. Russo, the family physician who traveled with Dante during emergencies, took one look at Dante’s protective stance beside the bed and wisely asked no questions.
"Out, Dante," Dr. Russo said gently, setting his bag on the mahogany table. "Let me examine the young lady. If you pace in here like a caged wolf, her blood pressure will go through the roof."
Dante hesitated, his gray eyes lingering on Nora’s apron pocket. "Ten minutes, Doc. Then I want a full report."
Once the heavy doors closed, Nora’s hand trembled as Dr. Russo checked her vitals and listened to the baby’s heartbeat with a Doppler monitor. The rapid, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of Lily’s heart filled the quiet room, bringing tears of relief to Nora’s eyes.
"Your daughter is strong," Dr. Russo said warmly, though his brow furrowed as he examined Nora’s bruised wrists and calloused, cracked hands. "You, however, are suffering from severe exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition. Another day of lifting heavy loads on stairs, and you would have gone into premature labor. You are on strict bed rest for the next seventy-two hours."
"Mrs. Gable will throw me out if I don't work," Nora whispered.
"Mrs. Gable should be praying to every saint in Rome that Dante doesn't throw her off the roof before breakfast," Dr. Russo replied dryly. Hebandaged her cracked palms with soothing salve and left a glass of warm broth on her nightstand.
The moment the doctor stepped out to speak with Dante in the corridor, Nora pulled the items from her apron pocket: the silver rosary with the gold ring, the faded Polaroid of Brody, and the small leather ledger she had tucked beneath her waistband when she fell.
If Dante’s initials were D.M., and his mother Lucia had died five years ago, then who had written Paid in full — L.M. on a photograph of Brody just three months ago?
With bandaged hands, Nora opened the dusty leather ledger Giovanni had hidden beneath the floorboards of room 4B.
The first half of the book contained old financial records from five years ago, written in Giovanni’s bold, slanted handwriting. Page after page detailed massive embezzlement from the Moretti charity clinics in upstate New York. Someone inside the house had been skimming millions of dollars meant for medical equipment and replacing the clinic supplies with counterfeit medication.
At the bottom of the final entry, dated the night before Giovanni’s devastating stroke, Giovanni had written:
Confronted the thief tonight in the conservatory. She begged me not to tell Dante. She swore it was to pay off her blood debts in Albany. If I am dead by morning, look to the woman who pours the tea.
Nora gasped. Albany.
Mrs. Gable had screamed at her less than an hour ago: My sister is dying in a private clinic in Albany, and her bills cost three thousand dollars a week.
Wait—what was Mrs. Gable’s first name? None of the maids ever used it. Everyone called her Mrs. Gable.
Nora flipped frantically to the back of the ledger, where an old staff payroll register from twenty years ago had been pasted inside the cover. Her finger traced down the faded ink until it stopped on the housekeeper’s full legal name:
Lydia Moretti-Gable — Distant cousin to Lucia Moretti.
L.M.
Mrs. Gable hadn't just been neglecting Giovanni out of laziness or cruelty. Five years ago, Giovanni had caught her stealing from the family’s medical charities. Mrs. Gable had caused his stroke—probably poisoning his evening tea—and had kept him locked in that freezing room for five years to make sure he never recovered enough to expose her!
Then Nora turned to the very last page of the ledger, and the blood drained from her face.
Pinned to the back cover with a rusted paperclip was a yellow pawnshop ticket from Manhattan, dated four months ago, alongside a crumpled promissory note signed by Brody.
Brody hadn't borrowed money from casino sharks. He had borrowed fifty thousand dollars directly from Lydia Gable. And in exchange for wiping his debt clean and giving him cash to disappear, Brody had signed a single horrifying sentence at the bottom of the page:
I will send the girl to the upstate estate before her fifth month. She carries the bloodline you asked for.
Nora’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. Brody hadn't abandoned her in the night out of fear. He had sold her—and her unborn baby—into this house on purpose.
Why would Mrs. Gable pay fifty thousand dollars to lure a destitute, pregnant girl into the Moretti estate?
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Suddenly, the secret service panel in the wall behind the vanity clicked open. Mrs. Gable stepped into the room through the servants' passage, holding a glass syringe filled with clear liquid and a wet rag.
"Dr. Russo said you needed something to help you sleep, dear," Mrs. Gable whispered, her eyes fixed on the open ledger on Nora’s lap. "Give me the book, Nora. If you scream, the baby dies with you."
