Chapter 8 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
Anthony looked down at the photograph in his palm. It was cracked and faded, showing three young boys playing in the gardens of this very estate. Anthony, Luca, and their middle brother, Thomas—Vanessa’s late husband. A tear slipped down Anthony’s scarred cheek. We are still a family, Eleanor signed, her hands moving with graceful dignity. We survive. The police poured into the house. Detectives, uniforms, paramedics. The next few hours were a blur of statements, crime scene tape, and flashing lights. I sat in the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, sipping a cold cup of tea. I realized my uniform was covered in plaster dust and a small tear on the sleeve from when I dove over the wheelchair. I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 AM. Tomorrow was supposed to be payday. The money for my sister’s surgery. Vanessa had fired me. With her gone, and the family in chaos, I knew I was walking away with nothing. I had risked my life, but my sister was still going to lose her hearing. A heavy set of footsteps echoed on the kitchen tiles. Luca walked in. He looked exhausted, his tie undone, his suit jacket discarded somewhere in the chaos. He sat down across from me at the small wooden staff table. “The police took Marco’s body,” Luca said quietly. “Vanessa is gone. She took Mia to her sister’s place in New York. Anthony is giving his official statement. He’s home, Claire.” I managed a weak smile. “I’m glad. Your mother… she deserves to have him back.” Luca studied my face. “Vanessa fired you tonight.” I looked down at my hands. “Yes, sir.” “Because you refused to treat my mother like she was invisible.” “She’s a person, Mr. Moretti. She just needed someone to listen.” Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick, white envelope. He slid it across the table toward me. “I looked into your file, Claire. I know about your sister. I know why you took this job.” I stared at the envelope, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Open it,” he said softly.
