Chapter 1 - The Song at 7:17
The gramophone was playing when Aleandro Romano stormed into the library and shouted, “Who touched it?”
His eyes landed on the tiny brass screwdriver in Rosa Bellini’s hand.
A faded number was scratched beneath its wooden base.
7:17.
Aleandro stopped shouting.
The song began at exactly 7:17 on a winter morning.
Rosa Bellini had not intended for anyone to hear it.
Certainly not Aleandro Romano.
She had arrived before sunrise as she always did, tied her gray apron around her waist, pinned her brown hair into a practical bun, and collected the cleaning cart from the servants’ corridor beneath the east wing.
For eleven months, Rosa had worked at Romano Estate without making trouble.
She cleaned rooms that cost more than her childhood home.
She polished silver nobody used.
She dusted portraits of dead people whose eyes seemed to follow her across the walls.
And she had learned the rules.
Never enter Mr. Romano’s office without permission.
Never answer the private telephone.
Never ask about the men who arrived after midnight.
And above all—
Never touch the gramophone in the east library.
Mrs. Evelyn, the senior housekeeper, had repeated that rule on Rosa’s first morning.
“That machine belonged to his mother,” she had whispered. “It hasn’t played since she died. Mr. Romano doesn’t allow anyone near it.”
Rosa had nodded.
She had obeyed for almost a year.
Until Tuesday.
The first thing she noticed was the dust.
Not ordinary dust.
A fine black powder beneath the gramophone’s turntable.
Rosa knew machines.
Her father, Antonio Bellini, had repaired radios, clocks, phonographs, jukeboxes, and old record players in a narrow repair shop in Queens.
As a child, Rosa had sat beside him after school, handing him screwdrivers while he taught her how to listen for problems.
A machine always told you what hurt, he said.
You simply had to be patient enough to hear it.
Her father had been gone four years now.
But his lessons remained in her hands.
So when Rosa saw the black powder, she knew immediately that the gramophone’s drive assembly was deteriorating.
She should have walked away.
Instead, she bent closer.
The machine was magnificent.
Dark walnut cabinet.
Polished brass fittings.
A great golden horn curling upward like a flower.
The record resting on the platter was old, its handwritten label faded almost white.
Rosa brushed the dust from the edge without touching it.
Then she heard something.
A faint clicking noise.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The spring mechanism was still under tension.
Someone had wound the gramophone years ago and left it that way.
That was bad.
Eventually, the main spring could snap.
Rosa looked toward the library door.
Empty.
“Don’t,” she whispered to herself.
Then she sighed.
“Papa would already have the back panel off.”
That was how it began.
She told herself she would only relieve the spring tension.
Then she discovered a loose governor screw.
Then a cracked leather brake pad.
Then dried oil in the spindle bearing.
One problem became three.
Three became seven.
For nearly two hours before her regular shift, Rosa worked carefully under the warm library lamps.
She used only the small tools she kept in her handbag.
At 7:14, she replaced the final screw.
At 7:15, she turned the crank once.
At 7:16, nothing happened.
Rosa smiled sadly.
“Maybe you’re not ready.”
Then, at 7:17—
the platter began turning.
The needle dropped.
And music filled the room.
Rosa froze.
The melody was soft and old-fashioned.
Piano first.
Then strings.
Then a woman’s voice singing something tender and slow.
Rosa reached toward the needle.
Too late.
Footsteps sounded outside.
Several footsteps.
The library doors opened.
Aleandro Romano entered.
He wore black trousers and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
His tie hung loose.
His dark hair looked as though he had pushed both hands through it.
But it was his face that frightened everyone.
Aleandro was not shouting yet.
That came seconds later.
At first, he simply stared.
The record turned.
The woman’s voice continued singing.
Behind Aleandro stood his chief of staff, Matteo Russo, the severe butler Mr. Harcourt, Mrs. Evelyn, and three members of the household staff.
Nobody moved.
Aleandro looked toward the gramophone.
Then Rosa.
Then the screwdriver in her hand.
“Who touched it?”
His voice cracked across the room.
Rosa slowly lowered her hand.
“I did.”
Mrs. Evelyn closed her eyes.
Matteo took one step forward.
Aleandro’s expression hardened.
“You?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do?”
“I repaired it.”
The music continued.
Aleandro’s eyes flashed.
“I asked who gave you permission.”
“No one.”
“You dismantled something that belonged to my mother without permission?”
“I repaired three failing parts and cleaned the governor.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
Aleandro crossed the room.
Everyone else seemed to shrink backward.
Rosa remained still.
She was afraid.
But fear had never made her good at lying.
Aleandro stopped on the opposite side of the desk.
“Turn it off.”
Rosa looked toward the record.
The woman on it was singing the final verse.
“Please let the song finish.”
Aleandro’s expression became dangerous.
“Excuse me?”
Rosa swallowed.
“If I lift the needle now, you may never hear where the damage was.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You think I care about damage?”
“Yes.”
That answer seemed to surprise him.
Rosa placed the screwdriver down.
“You kept the gramophone for all these years.”
Silence.
“So yes,” she continued gently. “I think you care.”
Aleandro stared at her.
Nobody spoke to him that way.
Not employees.
Not associates.
Certainly not housekeepers.
Rosa knew that.
She simply did not know what else to say.
Finally, Aleandro pointed toward the machine.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why repair it?”
Rosa glanced at the golden horn.
“Because broken things shouldn’t stay silent forever.”
The room changed.
Not visibly.
But everyone felt it.
Aleandro’s pointing hand dropped.
The song reached a particular melody.
Four rising notes.
Then three descending ones.
His face emptied.
For one brief second, the intimidating man disappeared.
Rosa saw a son.
A grieving one.
Aleandro turned slowly toward the gramophone.
“My mother used to play this song.”
Nobody answered.
He moved closer.
“What record is that?”
“The one that was already on it.”
“That’s impossible.”
Rosa frowned.
“It was sitting beneath the needle.”
Aleandro shook his head.
“No.”
He stepped around the desk.
“That record disappeared after her funeral.”
Matteo looked sharply at him.
“Aleandro—”
“I searched for it.”
He bent toward the turntable.
His fingers hovered above the label.
He did not touch it.
The record finished.
The final note faded.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Rosa noticed Aleandro’s breathing.
Slow.
Uneven.
Then he whispered, “Play it again.”
Mrs. Evelyn looked stunned.
Rosa carefully lifted the tonearm and reset the needle.
The melody began once more.
Aleandro closed his eyes.
Rosa looked away.
There was something too private in his face.
When she turned toward the tools on the desk, she noticed a tiny section of wood beneath the gramophone cabinet that did not match the surrounding grain.
A seam.
She had seen it earlier but assumed it was decorative.
Now, with the machine vibrating, the seam had shifted.
Rosa leaned closer.
“What?”
Aleandro opened his eyes.
“There’s something loose.”
“Where?”
She pointed.
“Underneath.”
Aleandro crouched beside her.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
Rosa pressed gently against the panel.
Nothing.
She examined the latch.
No visible screw.
Then she noticed the scratched number.
7:17.
“Aleandro.”
He looked.
The color drained from his face.
“What does that mean?” Rosa asked.
He did not answer.
Matteo stepped closer.
“Aleandro?”
Aleandro ran his thumb over the numbers.
“My mother died at 7:17 in the morning.”
Nobody moved.
Rosa felt cold despite the warm room.
Aleandro pressed the panel again.
A faint click answered.
The hidden compartment opened half an inch.
Everyone stared.
Aleandro reached beneath the gramophone.
His fingers disappeared into darkness.
Then he pulled out a narrow envelope.
Old.
Yellowed.
Sealed with dark red wax.
Across the front, written in faded ink, were four words.
FOR MY SON, ALEANDRO.
Rosa stopped breathing.
Aleandro stared at the handwriting.
“My mother wrote this.”
He turned the envelope over.
The wax seal was unbroken.
Matteo whispered, “Open it.”
Aleandro’s thumb moved toward the seal.
Then Mrs. Evelyn suddenly gasped behind them.
Everyone turned.
The elderly housekeeper was staring at the envelope as though she had seen a ghost.
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
Aleandro stood.
“What?”
Mrs. Evelyn backed away.
“You weren’t supposed to find that.”
The room went silent.
Aleandro’s eyes hardened.
“Supposed?”
Mrs. Evelyn looked toward the door.
Then toward Matteo.
Then back at Aleandro.
She whispered, “Your mother made me promise.”
“Promise what?”
Mrs. Evelyn’s lips parted.
Before she could answer, the library door slowly opened behind her.
A man none of them expected stepped inside.
He looked at the envelope.
Then at Aleandro.
And said one name.
“Lucia.”
Aleandro went completely still.
May you like
Because Lucia Romano had been dead for fourteen years.
And the man standing in the doorway was the last person who had seen her alive.
