Chapter 4 - A Father's Silent Rage
Lorenzo reached out and took his father’s hand.
Instantly, his brow furrowed. The cashmere blanket was warm, but Giovanni’s hand beneath it was as cold as iron. His knuckles were swollen, his skin cracked and dry from weeks of enduring freezing drafts. This was not the hand of a man kept in luxury. This was the hand of a man kept in an unheated cellar.
Lorenzo’s thumb brushed against the inside of Giovanni’s wrist.
Suddenly, a rhythmic pressure met Lorenzo’s skin.
*Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.*
It was subtle—so light that Mrs. Gable, hovering nervously two feet away, saw nothing. But Lorenzo froze internally. It was the old Sicilian cipher—a tactile Morse code Giovanni had taught Lorenzo when he was just ten years old, designed to pass messages during hostage situations or police interrogations.
*L-I-A-R,* the fingers tapped against Lorenzo’s pulse. *T-H-I-E-F.*
Lorenzo’s expression did not change by a fraction of a millimeter. He was the head of the Moretti syndicate; his face had been trained to be a stone mask in the presence of death itself.
He gently set his father’s hand back down and stood up slowly, towering over the room.
"You've taken good care of him, Mrs. Gable?" Lorenzo asked, turning his head slightly. His voice was smooth, quiet, but possessing a dangerous weight that made the hairs on the back of Marco's neck stand up.
"Oh, absolutely, sir!" Gable gushed, wringing her hands with feigned humility. "Day and night, Mr. Moretti. I personally oversee his diet. Only organic purees, imported fruits, and round-the-clock warmth. We spare no expense from the monthly stipend you send."
"Is that so?" Lorenzo murmured. He paced slowly around the wheelchair. "The monthly stipend is fifty thousand dollars. For that amount, I expected him to look less... gaunt."
Mrs. Gable’s throat bobbed. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her neck, despite the draft. "Well, you know how his illness is, sir. The doctors warned us that muscle atrophy is inevitable. He simply refuses to eat most days. We practically have to force-feed him!"
From the corner of the room, Nora felt a hot spike of anger pierce through her fear. *Liar,* she thought, her fingers curling around the handle of her broom. *You bring him stale toast and cold water, and you eat prime rib in the staff dining hall.*
Lorenzo stopped directly in front of Nora.
She held her breath, lowering her eyes to the polished floorboards. She could smell him—expensive sandalwood, tobacco, and the crisp winter air clinging to his wool suit. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You," Lorenzo commanded softly.
Nora flinched. "Y-yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"What is your name?"
"Nora, sir. Nora Vance."
"Look at me when I speak to you, Nora."
Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. Slowly, she lifted her chin. When her honey-brown eyes met his piercing gray gaze, she felt an involuntary shiver run down her spine. There was immense danger in this man, but behind the predator’s eyes, she saw something else: a brilliant, calculating mind analyzing every single detail.
Lorenzo’s eyes flickered down to her wrists. The purple bruises were fresh, shaped clearly like fingers.
"How long have you worked here, Nora?" Lorenzo asked.
"Three months, sir."
"And what are your duties?"
Before Nora could answer, Mrs. Gable intervened loudly. "Oh, Nora is just a junior maid, Mr. Moretti! She handles the rough cleaning—floors, cellars, emptying waste. She has nothing to do with your father’s medical care. In fact, she’s quite clumsy due to her... delicate condition. I've been considering letting her go for her own safety."
Lorenzo didn't look at Mrs. Gable. His eyes remained locked on Nora’s face. He saw the slight tremor in her lower lip, the fierce maternal protectiveness in her posture, and the clear exhaustion etched around her young eyes.
"Is that true, Nora?" Lorenzo asked, his tone dangerously calm. "Are you clumsy?"
Nora swallowed hard. She knew that if she spoke the truth right now, Gable would make her life a living hell the second Lorenzo stepped out of the room. But looking at the frail old man in the wheelchair—the only person in this grand house who had ever looked at her with kindness—she couldn't lie.
"I do my job, Mr. Moretti," Nora said softly, her voice steadying. "I do everything I am told to do. And I make sure John is never left alone in the dark."
Giovanni closed his eyes, a silent confirmation.
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. "Leave us," he said suddenly.
Mrs. Gable blinked. "Sir?"
"Get out," Lorenzo ordered, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the unmistakable authority of an executioner. "All of you. Leave me with my father."
Mrs. Gable bowed hurriedly, grabbing Nora roughly by the elbow to drag her out.
"Wait," Lorenzo said.
Gable stopped.
"Leave the maid. Gable, take the rest of your staff and go."
May you like
Mrs. Gable’s face drained of color, but she dared not disobey. She shot Nora a glare full of murderous intent before retreating out the door and pulling it shut.
***
