Chapter 2 - The Maid Who Knew Too Much
By sunset, the De Luca estate had become a prison.
The iron gates were chained. Every guard received orders to remain at his post. Phones belonging to the household staff were collected and locked inside the security office. No deliveries entered. No vehicles left.
Twenty-three people lived or worked on the property.
One of them might have helped murder my wife.
I questioned them in the dining room beneath the portrait of my grandfather, a brutal Sicilian who had once said that betrayal entered through doors opened by affection.
The servants sat in silence while my men searched their rooms.
Sophia held Emma on her lap. The child had fallen asleep against her shoulder, exhausted by the cold and excitement. Her red cap rested on the table.
Isabella remained upstairs with Dr. Hale, the neurologist who had supervised her care for two years. I had summoned him immediately after seeing her foot move.
He had examined her three times.
Each time, his disbelief grew.
“She has voluntary muscle response,” he told me privately. “Weak, but unmistakable.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then find out.”
“There may have been inflammation around the spinal nerves that was never properly identified. Or scar tissue pressing against a nerve pathway. But this degree of delayed response—”
“Can she walk?”
His eyes dropped.
“Not yet.”
“But someday?”
“I won’t make promises.”
I stepped closer.
He did not move, though sweat appeared near his temple.
“Make an assessment.”
“If the movement continues, and if we can identify the cause, rehabilitation may be possible.”
It was the first hopeful statement a doctor had made in years.
Now, standing at the head of the dining table, I studied the faces of everyone who served me.
Mrs. Bellini, the housekeeper, had worked for my family for nineteen years. The cook, Carlo, had prepared my wedding dinner. Two gardeners had been hired after Elena died. Four maids had joined during Isabella’s recovery. Nurses, drivers, maintenance workers, and guards filled the remaining seats.
Victor stood at my right shoulder.
He had not asked about the letters engraved on the charm.
That troubled me.
I placed the charm on the table.
“Does anyone recognize this?”
Several people leaned forward.
No one spoke.
“It belonged to my wife.”
Mrs. Bellini crossed herself.
“It was removed from evidence after her murder,” I continued. “Today, it appeared in my daughter’s blanket.”
The servants exchanged fearful glances.
“Someone brought it into this house.”
Sophia tightened her arms around Emma.
“Mr. De Luca,” she said softly, “my daughter found it.”
Every face turned toward her.
“Where?”
“She won’t tell me.”
“She says a woman gave it to her.”
Sophia looked humiliated. “Emma has a strong imagination.”
“She also knew something was wrong with Isabella’s legs.”
“She repeated an old remedy my grandmother used.”
“Your grandmother treated paralysis?”
Sophia hesitated.
Victor noticed it too.
“No,” she said. “Not exactly.”
I pulled out the chair opposite me.
“Put Emma upstairs. Then come back.”
Sophia rose reluctantly. One of Isabella’s nurses offered to carry the child, but Sophia refused.
After she left, Victor leaned closer.
“You believe the girl?”
“I believe what I saw.”
“A child moved Isabella’s foot with warm water and herbs. That doesn’t mean she speaks to Elena.”
“I didn’t say she speaks to Elena.”
“You’re thinking it.”
His tone was familiar, almost protective. But something beneath it felt wrong.
“You recognized the charm,” I said.
Victor did not blink.
“I attended your wedding. Elena wore it around her neck.”
“She did not.”
His jaw tightened.
“It wasn’t jewelry,” I continued. “It was found in her hand after the shooting.”
Victor looked at me for several seconds.
“Then I was mistaken.”
Victor Caruso was never mistaken.
Sophia returned ten minutes later.
I dismissed everyone except Victor and my brother Matteo.
Matteo had arrived from Manhattan after receiving my message. At thirty-one, he was four years younger than me and twice as reckless. He wore a dark wool coat over a gray suit, and his hair was still wet from the snow beginning outside.
He embraced Isabella first, cried when he saw her toes move, and immediately offered Emma every toy store in the city.
Now he sat near the fireplace, watching Sophia with open suspicion.
“Tell me about your grandmother,” I said.
Sophia folded her hands in her lap.
“Her name was Rosa Valenti.”
My eyes moved to the charm.
S. R. V.
“What was her full name?”
“Sofia Rosa Valenti.”
The first initial was not S for Sofia. Italians sometimes reversed names on formal records, but the coincidence was too strong.
“When did she die?”
“Six months ago.”
“Before or after you came here?”
“Two weeks before.”
“How did you get this position?”
“An employment agency.”
“Which one?”
“Bellini Domestic Placement.”
Mrs. Bellini’s niece owned the agency.
Victor walked toward the window.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone your grandmother used treatments like the one Emma performed?”
“Because people laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” Matteo said.
Sophia looked at him. “My grandmother was a nurse in Sicily. She believed the body remembered things the mind forgot. She used heat, herbs, massage, music, and pressure points. Some called it medicine. Others called it superstition.”
“And Isabella?”
“Emma watched my grandmother treat an old man who had lost movement after a stroke. She copied what she remembered.”
“You expect me to believe a three-year-old remembered a medical treatment?”
Sophia’s expression hardened for the first time.
“You expect me to explain how your daughter moved? I can’t.”
Her courage surprised me.
Most people lowered their eyes when I questioned them. Sophia met my gaze despite her fear.
“Did your grandmother know Elena?”
“No.”
“Did she know my family?”
“No.”
“Did she ever mention the Morettis?”
Sophia’s hands stopped moving.
Matteo leaned forward.
Victor turned from the window.
“What?” I asked.
“She mentioned that name once.”
The room became still.
“When?”
“Before she died.”
“What did she say?”
Sophia swallowed.
“She was confused from fever. She said, ‘The Moretti child must never be found.’ I thought she was remembering someone from Sicily.”
Matteo stood.
“What child?”
“I don’t know.”
Victor stepped toward Sophia. “You should have told us this before entering the De Luca household.”
“I didn’t know it mattered.”
“Everything matters here.”
I raised a hand, and Victor stopped.
“Your grandmother’s belongings,” I said. “Where are they?”
“In storage in Brooklyn.”
“Keys?”
“In my purse.”
Matteo grabbed his coat.
“I’ll bring the boxes.”
“No,” Victor said quickly. “We send a team.”
Matteo smiled without humor. “Worried I’ll find something?”
Victor’s hand twitched at his side.
They had never liked each other. Victor considered Matteo impulsive. Matteo considered Victor a relic who had accumulated too much influence.
“Both of you go,” I said. “Take four men. Nothing is opened until you return.”
Victor’s expression remained controlled.
“Of course.”
When they left, Sophia stood.
“Am I free to go upstairs?”
“Not yet.”
Her eyes flashed.
“My daughter is sleeping in a stranger’s room while armed men search our belongings. I have answered every question.”
“And my wife is dead.”
The anger left her face.
I immediately disliked myself for saying it.
Sophia looked toward the fireplace.
“My husband is dead too.”
I knew she was a widow, but not how he died.
“His name was Daniel Rossi,” she continued. “He worked at the docks. There was an accident eighteen months ago. A cable snapped while they were unloading a ship.”
“Which docks?”
“Red Hook.”
I controlled Red Hook.
“What company?”
“Vanguard Shipping.”
My company.
A memory surfaced: an insurance report involving a young worker crushed beneath a container. The widow had received a settlement. I had signed the payment authorization without reading the family’s name.
“Daniel Rossi was your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you take a job here?”
“Because the settlement stopped.”
“It was paid in full.”
“For six months. Then nothing.”
“That’s impossible.”
She laughed once, bitterly.
“People like me hear that word often from people like you.”
I studied her.
“Did you come here to get close to me?”
“I came because the agency offered housing and allowed Emma to stay. I didn’t know this was your estate until the driver brought us through the gates.”
That too was difficult to believe.
Before I could question her further, a scream echoed from upstairs.
Sophia ran first.
I followed with my gun drawn.
We reached Isabella’s room to find Dr. Hale kneeling beside the bed. Isabella was crying, clutching her left thigh. Emma stood beside her, wide awake and frightened.
“What happened?” I demanded.
“She felt pain,” Dr. Hale said.
“Is that bad?”
“It may be extraordinary.”
Isabella looked at me through tears.
“My leg hurts.”
I crossed the room and sat beside her.
“Where?”
She pointed to a place above her knee.
Dr. Hale pressed the area lightly.
Isabella flinched.
“Sensation is returning,” he whispered.
Sophia lifted Emma into her arms.
The child buried her face against her mother’s neck.
“I didn’t do it,” Emma said.
“No one said you did,” Sophia whispered.
Emma looked over her shoulder at me.
“The bad man did.”
My hand tightened around the gun.
“What bad man?”
“The one by the door.”
Everyone turned.
The doorway was empty.
I walked into the hall.
At the far end, a shadow disappeared around the corner.
I ran.
By the time I reached the staircase, no one was there.
Two guards stood below.
“Who came through here?”
“No one, sir.”
I looked back toward Isabella’s room.
A narrow service corridor ran behind the east wall. Most of the household did not know it existed. My grandfather had built it during Prohibition to move unseen between rooms.
Someone inside my estate knew those passages.
When I returned, Emma was pointing beneath Isabella’s bed.
I crouched and found a small glass vial taped to the wooden frame.
Inside was a clear liquid.
Dr. Hale took one look at it and went pale.
“What is it?”
“I need a laboratory.”
“Guess.”
He held it toward the lamp.
“A muscle suppressant. Possibly something that interferes with nerve signals.”
Sophia covered her mouth.
For three years, we had believed Isabella’s paralysis came entirely from the ambush.
But someone had been entering her bedroom.
Someone had been keeping her from recovering.
I stared at the vial.
The person responsible had access to my daughter, knowledge of medicine, and familiarity with the hidden corridors.
That narrowed the list.
Then my phone rang.
It was Matteo.
His breathing was heavy.
“We found the storage unit,” he said.
“And?”
“It was empty.”
“Where’s Victor?”
Silence followed.
“Matteo?”
“Victor never arrived.”
May you like
A gunshot exploded through the phone.
Then the call went dead.
