Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Wouldn’t Pity Him
Penelope Jenkins lasted less than five minutes inside Gabriel Moretti’s fortress before spilling an iced caramel macchiato all over him.
That would have been embarrassing anywhere.
Here, it might have been fatal.
For most people on the East Coast, Gabriel Moretti existed somewhere between rumor and warning. His name rarely appeared in newspapers, but it traveled through city halls, courtrooms, union offices, private clubs, and back rooms where men lowered their voices before speaking it.
Six months earlier, an assassin’s bullet had torn through his spine as he left a charity gala in Manhattan.
Gabriel survived.
His ability to walk did not.
The doctors called his condition permanent.
Gabriel called the doctors irritating.
Since returning to the Moretti estate, he had fired thirteen caregivers.
One had told him he was “an inspiration.”
She lasted forty-three minutes.
Another had spoken to him in the slow, exaggerated voice people sometimes used around the injured, as though paralysis had somehow affected his intelligence.
She lasted sixteen.
A neurologist had encouraged him to “embrace his new reality.”
Gabriel had thrown a pitcher of water at him.
So when Penelope arrived forty minutes late, drenched from the rain and carrying what appeared to be every possession she owned in a canvas tote bag, Vincent Romano quietly assumed her employment would be measured in seconds.
Gabriel sat behind the enormous walnut desk in his study, his wheelchair positioned where an executive chair had once stood.
He looked exactly as dangerous as the rumors promised.
Black suit.
Black shirt.
Silver cross resting against his chest.
Dark hair pushed back from an angular face that seemed permanently carved into displeasure.
His legs remained motionless beneath the desk, but nothing else about him suggested weakness.
Three of his men stood near the walls.
Penelope stopped inside the doorway.
She was curvy, flushed from running, and still clutching a dripping umbrella.
Her long brown hair had been pinned up that morning, apparently, but the weather had won the argument. Loose curls clung to her cheeks.
One earring was missing.
Her blouse had tiny blue flowers on it.
Gabriel stared.
“You are late.”
Penelope breathed heavily.
“Your driveway is approximately the length of Rhode Island.”
Vincent coughed into his fist.
Gabriel’s gaze shifted toward him.
Vincent immediately became fascinated by the ceiling.
Penelope adjusted the canvas bag on her shoulder.
“And my Civic overheated at the second security gate.”
“It has rust.”
“It has no car payment.”
Gabriel studied her.
“You drove through three armed checkpoints in a vehicle held together by corrosion?”
“And optimism.”
Vincent turned away.
Gabriel noticed.
“Something amusing?”
“No, boss.”
Penelope looked between them.
“Should I come back when everyone’s in a better mood?”
“You will not be coming back.”
She blinked.
“I haven’t started yet.”
“I know.”
“Oh.”
Penelope glanced at the folder sticking from her bag.
“At least let me do the assessment.”
“No.”
“Medication review?”
“No.”
“Range-of-motion evaluation?”
“No.”
“Blood pressure?”
Gabriel leaned back.
“Do you have difficulty understanding simple words, Ms. Jenkins?”
“No. I just spent two years doing home rehabilitation nursing, and your physician said you’ve rejected everyone he sent.”
“I did not reject them.”
“Thirteen people?”
“They were unsuitable.”
“Statistically, after thirteen, there’s at least a small possibility you’re the problem.”
The room became silent.
Vincent closed his eyes.
One of the guards stared straight ahead with the disciplined expression of a man witnessing an automobile accident he had been ordered not to acknowledge.
Gabriel’s eyebrows lifted.
Penelope realized what she had said.
Her eyes widened.
“That sounded less suicidal in my head.”
“You think I am the problem?”
“I think you’ve had your entire life ripped apart, you’re furious about it, strangers keep entering your house pretending they understand how you feel, and you’re making them pay for being unable to fix something they didn’t break.”
For the first time, Gabriel’s expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
Penelope swallowed.
“Also, you may simply be difficult.”
Vincent made a choking sound.
Gabriel slowly turned toward him.
Vincent raised both hands.
“Allergies.”
“In November?”
“Dust.”
Gabriel looked back at Penelope.
“You have thirty seconds to leave.”
“Fine.”
She reached down to collect the umbrella she had leaned against her leg.
It slipped.
Penelope lunged.
Her shoe caught the edge of an antique Persian rug.
The oversized iced caramel macchiato in her right hand tilted.
She tried to save it.
That was the problem.
The plastic cup collapsed between her fingers.
Coffee exploded.
Ice bounced across polished marble.
Whipped cream splattered Gabriel’s black shirt.
Caramel streamed across his jacket, trousers, lap, and one extremely expensive Italian shoe.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Penelope remained frozen halfway between standing and falling.
Gabriel looked down.
A drop of coffee slid from his silver cross.
Penelope straightened slowly.
“Oh.”
Gabriel’s jaw flexed.
“Oh,” she repeated, quieter.
Vincent began moving forward.
Gabriel lifted one hand.
Vincent stopped.
Gabriel looked at Penelope.
His voice was almost gentle.
“If you touch me, Vincent will bury you beneath the rose garden.”
Penelope went pale.
Vincent sighed.
“The west garden or east?”
Penelope stared at him.
Gabriel stared at him.
Vincent cleared his throat.
“Sorry.”
Penelope pressed her lips together.
Her shoulders moved.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes.
She covered her mouth.
A strange sound escaped her.
Gabriel’s expression darkened.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
Another sound.
Penelope turned away.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are.”
“I know you threatened to murder me.”
“Yes.”
“And I respect that.”
“You respect it?”
“It’s just…”
She made the terrible mistake of looking through the French doors beyond Gabriel.
Outside, perfectly trimmed roses stretched across the estate.
Her composure collapsed.
“The rose garden is so aggressively stereotypical.”
Vincent’s head dropped.
One guard coughed.
The other two looked as though their internal organs were fighting for survival.
Gabriel stared at the woman standing in front of him.
People did not laugh at Gabriel Moretti.
People did not arrive late.
They did not criticize his behavior.
They certainly did not cover him in coffee and then make jokes about organized-crime stereotypes.
Penelope wiped beneath one eye.
“I am genuinely sorry.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“I’ll pay for the clothes.”
His suit had cost more than her car.
“You cannot afford the buttons.”
“That feels unnecessarily specific.”
A pause.
Something almost imperceptible happened near the corner of Gabriel’s mouth.
Vincent saw it.
His eyebrows shot upward.
Gabriel noticed.
The almost-smile disappeared.
“Everybody out.”
The guards immediately left.
Vincent hesitated.
“Boss?”
“Out.”
Vincent followed them and closed the door.
Penelope stood alone with Gabriel.
Her humor vanished.
“I really am sorry.”
Gabriel looked down at his useless legs beneath the stained trousers.
“I can change myself.”
Penelope’s expression softened.
Not pity.
He knew pity instantly.
He hated it.
This was something else.
“Okay,” she said.
He looked up.
She placed a folded towel from her bag on the desk.
“I’ll be outside.”
“You are leaving?”
“I’m giving you privacy.”
“Most caregivers insist on helping.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t.”
Gabriel watched her.
She started toward the door.
“Ms. Jenkins.”
Penelope stopped.
He glanced toward the towel.
Then toward her.
“You have fifteen minutes.”
She frowned.
“For what?”
“To prove you know what you are doing.”
A smile slowly appeared on her face.
“Does this mean I’m not going under the roses?”
“That remains under review.”
“Fair.”
She stepped outside.
Vincent was waiting in the hall.
“Well?”
Penelope whispered, “Apparently my execution has been postponed.”
Vincent stared at the closed door.
“You made him almost smile.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’ve worked for Gabriel for nineteen years.”
“That seems impossible. You don’t look that old.”
“He has not smiled since the shooting.”
Penelope’s amusement faded.
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Before it happened, his younger brother Luca was killed. Gabriel took the bullet three weeks later.”
Penelope looked toward the door.
“Same people?”
“We don’t know.”
“You think someone close to him was involved.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“I think whoever tried to kill Gabriel knew exactly where he would be standing.”
Before Penelope could respond, the study door opened.
Gabriel had changed into another black shirt and trousers.
“Your fifteen minutes began two minutes ago.”
Penelope hurried inside.
For the next quarter hour, everything changed.
She did not ask him how he felt about being paralyzed.
She asked where sensation stopped.
She did not praise him for surviving.
She checked his medication interactions.
She did not tell him to be grateful.
She inspected a pressure sore beginning near his hip and told him bluntly that neglecting it could put him in the hospital.
Gabriel argued.
Penelope argued better.
“You have spasms at night?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Sometimes.”
“Nerve pain or muscular?”
He hesitated.
“Nerve.”
“You’re taking half the prescribed dosage.”
Silence.
Penelope looked at the medication bottle.
“Why?”
“It makes me slow.”
“Mentally?”
“Yes.”
“So we discuss alternatives with your neurologist. You don’t silently cut your medication.”
“I do not require permission.”
“No, but infections, falls, pressure injuries, and autonomic complications don’t care who your grandfather was.”
Gabriel looked at her sharply.
She met his eyes.
No fear.
No pity.
Just professional irritation.
At the end of fifteen minutes, she closed her notebook.
“You need a consistent transfer schedule, adjustments to your chair cushion, better pain management, and someone to stop you from pretending that ignoring your body counts as discipline.”
Gabriel folded his hands.
“You are very comfortable giving orders in my house.”
“I’m very comfortable keeping stubborn patients alive.”
“I am not your patient.”
“Then I guess I’ll leave.”
She packed her equipment.
Gabriel said nothing.
Penelope reached the door.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
She turned.
“Nine.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“In the morning?”
“Obviously.”
“My car may need divine intervention.”
“A driver will collect you.”
“I don’t need—”
“Nine.”
Penelope stared at him.
Then smiled.
“Fine.”
She opened the door.
Gabriel spoke again.
“And Ms. Jenkins?”
“Yes?”
“Do not bring coffee.”
Penelope glanced at his new shirt.
“No promises.”
She walked away.
Gabriel remained in the silent room.
For the first time in six months, the house felt different.
Not peaceful.
Penelope Jenkins was clearly incapable of producing peace.
But different.
Vincent entered after she had gone.
Gabriel did not look at him.
“Run her background again.”
“We already did.”
“Again.”
Vincent hesitated.
“You think she’s dangerous?”
Gabriel looked toward the hallway where Penelope had disappeared.
“Yes.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.
“Not like that.”
But hours later, after the mansion became quiet and rain tapped gently against the windows, Gabriel found himself remembering the ridiculous expression on Penelope’s face as coffee covered his suit.
And against every instinct he possessed, something unfamiliar moved inside his chest.
Not trust.
Certainly not hope.
Something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
Neither Gabriel nor Penelope knew that someone else had been watching her arrival.
From a parked SUV beyond the estate gates, a man photographed Penelope climbing into the Moretti car.
He sent the image to an encrypted number.
A reply appeared seconds later.
FIND OUT WHAT SHE KNOWS.
The man looked toward Gabriel Moretti’s mansion.
May you like
Then he smiled.
Because the woman Gabriel had just allowed into his life might finally provide the opening they had been waiting for.
