Chapter 2 - Behind Heavy Oak Doors
The moment the heavy double doors of the private study clicked shut behind Lorenzo Moretti, the air in the grand foyer soured. The servile, fluttering warmth on Mrs. Gable’s face vanished, replaced by the cold, predatory sneer the staff had learned to dread.
She rounded on Nora instantly, her eyes narrowing into venomous slits.
"What are you standing there gaping at, you useless wretch?" Mrs. Gable hissed, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry toward the study, but packing it with venom. She stepped close enough that Nora could smell the sharp, chemical scent of her hairspray. "You think because the young master is in the house, you’re safe? One wrong breath, one slip of your clumsy tongue, and I’ll have you thrown onto the county road before nightfall. Blizzard or no blizzard."
Nora instinctively tucked her chin, her hands resting protectively over the rounded swell of her stomach. Her unborn child gave a faint, fluttering kick, as if sensing the mother’s surging panic.
"I didn't say a word, Mrs. Gable," Nora whispered, keeping her voice flat and obedient. She had learned long ago that meeting the head housekeeper's gaze only invited a slap.
"And you won't," Gable snapped, jabbing a sharp, manicured finger into Nora’s shoulder. "Go back to the west wing. Clear the dirty trays from the old man's room before Lorenzo decides to walk up there. If there is so much as a stray crumb on his blanket, I’ll take it out of your wages—and off your back. Move!"
Nora didn't wait for another command. She turned and hurried down the dim service corridor, her worn sneakers squeaking against the polished flagstone floor. Her hips ached with a deep, persistent throb, and her lower back felt like it was strung with hot wire. Being seven months pregnant while performing twelve-hour shifts of heavy manual labor was slowly breaking her down, but she had nowhere else to go. Her late husband’s medical debts had swallowed every penny of her meager savings, and the Moretti estate was the only place that had offered her a roof, even if that roof felt more like a gilded prison.
When she reached the drafty, isolated corridors of the west wing, the chill crept through the thin fabric of her uniform. This wing had been intentionally neglected. The central heating vents here were deliberately choked off to cut utility costs, leaving the air biting and crisp.
Nora pushed open the heavy wooden door to room 104.
"John?" she called softly, using the false name the staff had been instructed to call him.
Giovanni sat in his high-backed leather wheelchair beside the frost-laced window. To any casual observer, he looked like a husk of a man—hollow-cheeked, unmoving, his chin tilted slightly downward as if lost in the fog of profound dementia. But as Nora stepped inside, the old man’s dark eyes shifted, snapping directly to hers with an intensity that could cut glass.
"It’s just me," Nora breathed, letting out a sigh of relief as she closed the heavy door, shutting out the rest of the cold house.
From underneath her apron, she pulled out a small porcelain bowl. She had secretly traded half of her own lunch ration in the kitchen to heat a cup of rich chicken broth and had wrapped it in a clean napkin to keep it warm.
"The master of the house arrived," Nora said in a hushed, gentle voice as she pulled a wooden stool beside his chair. "A blizzard hit, so his convoy got in just in time. His name is Lorenzo. He... he is very intimidating, John. Everyone was shaking in their boots."
She dipped a silver spoon into the warm broth, blew on it gently, and held it to Giovanni’s lips.
Giovanni didn't refuse it. He opened his mouth, taking the nourishment. His throat swallowed mechanically, but his eyes never left her face. He saw the purple, finger-shaped bruises around her small wrists—bruises left by Mrs. Gable earlier that morning. He felt the cold radiating from her trembling hands.
"Mrs. Gable told him you were living like a king," Nora murmured sadly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the napkin. "It made my stomach twist, hearing her lie right to his face. You deserve better than this room, John. You deserve hot fires and people who care whether you wake up in the morning."
She reached out and took his weathered, scarred hands into her own, rubbing them gently between her palms to chase away the persistent winter frostbite that plagued his joints.
May you like
Giovanni’s fingers twitched beneath hers. Behind his blank, vacant expression, a storm far more terrifying than the blizzard outside was raging. He knew Lorenzo had arrived. He had heard the distant roar of the armored engines. And he knew that the reign of cruelty in this house was about to face a reckoning beyond human imagination.
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