Chapter 5: The Name She Never Expected to Hear Again
Nora ate alone in her room that night.
One of Lorenzo's men — a quiet, heavyset bodyguard named Sal — had knocked on her door at seven and handed her a covered plate without a word.
Roasted chicken.
Potatoes.
A small bread roll still warm from the oven.
A glass of water and a glass of milk.
She ate every bite.
Afterward she sat on the edge of her narrow bed with her hands resting on her belly, feeling Lily move — a slow, rolling pressure that had become the steadiest thing in her life.
She spoke to her the way she spoke to Giovanni, quietly, without expecting an answer.
"We're going to be okay," she said.
"I think we might actually be okay."
She slept better than she had in weeks.
In the morning, she woke to a different estate.
She felt it before she could name it.
The quality of sound in the corridors had changed.
Footsteps moved faster and were more careful.
Voices were lower.
Doors that were usually left open had been pulled shut.
She dressed and went to Giovanni's room out of habit, not instruction.
She didn't know if she still had a job.
She didn't know what had been decided while she slept.
But it was eight in the morning and if no one had come for her she was going to do the one thing she knew how to do right.
She pushed open the door to room 4B.
Lorenzo was already there.
He was sitting in the same chair he'd pulled up the night before, facing his father.
He had a coffee cup in his hand and he looked like he hadn't slept.
Giovanni was awake, positioned toward the window, and on the small table between them was a chessboard — old, the pieces carved from dark and pale wood, one or two pieces replaced with mismatched substitutes.
Lorenzo looked up when Nora entered.
"Sorry," she said, starting to step back.
"I didn't know—"
"Don't apologize.
Come in."
She came in.
She began her routine quietly — checking the fire, adding a small log, straightening the side table, checking the water glass.
"He asked for the board," Lorenzo said.
He was looking at the chess pieces.
"He tapped twice on the armrest when I was describing the room to him last night, trying to figure out what he needed.
I guessed wrong four times.
Fifth time I said chess, he stopped tapping."
Nora glanced at Giovanni.
The old man's eyes were on the board.
"He used to teach me," Lorenzo said.
"When I was a boy.
He was — very patient.
Even when I made bad moves he didn't correct me straight away.
He'd let me see it myself."
He picked up one of the pawns.
Turned it in his fingers.
Put it back.
"Can you sit for a minute?"
Nora pulled her stool to its usual position.
She sat.
"I want to ask you something," Lorenzo said, "and I need you to answer me honestly, even if you think the answer is going to cause a problem."
"All right."
"In three months of caring for my father, did anyone else on the staff ever come into this room and treat him well?
Anyone at all?"
Nora considered it carefully.
"There was a young maid, Petra.
She brought his tray a few times when I had other duties.
She always made sure the soup was warm before she came up.
She wasn't unkind to him."
"Anyone else?"
"No."
Lorenzo nodded.
"Mrs.
Gable."
"Yes."
"Walk me through exactly what she did.
Not what you heard.
What you personally witnessed."
Nora told him.
All of it.
She spoke slowly and precisely the way her mother had taught her to speak when she was trying not to cry — one word at a time, no rushing.
She described the cold room and the cold food and the clothing that wasn't changed for days at a stretch.
She described the way Mrs.
Gable spoke about Giovanni to the other staff, calling him a vegetable, calling him a waste of a room.
She described her own wrists, how the bruises had come from a grip that had lasted too long and gone too deep to be accidental.
Lorenzo listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he was quiet for a moment.
"I want you to write all of that down today.
Everything you just told me, in as much detail as you can.
I'll have paper and a pen brought to your room."
"Am I — am I in trouble?"
"No." He said it flatly, like it wasn't even a reasonable question.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
A knock at the door.
Sal opened it and leaned in.
"Mr.
Moretti.
There's a man at the estate gates.
He's been there since six this morning.
He says he's not leaving." Sal paused.
"He gave his name as Brody Callahan.
He says he has a right to be here.
He says he's the father of one of your staff members."
The blood left Nora's face.
She felt it go — a sudden, draining cold spreading from her chest outward.
Lorenzo turned to look at her.
Her hands had gone to her belly without her thinking about it.
"Is that the man you told my father about?" Lorenzo asked quietly.
"The one who left?"
She nodded.
She couldn't find her voice yet.
"Do you want to see him?"
"No," she said.
The word came out steady, which surprised her.
"I never want to see him again."
Lorenzo held her gaze for exactly two seconds.
Then he looked at Sal.
"Tell him the estate is private property and he is not welcome here.
If he remains at the gate past the next fifteen minutes, call the county sheriff."
Sal nodded and left.
Nora stared at her hands.
Her fingers were shaking.
"How did he know I was here?" she said.
Mostly to herself.
But it was the right question.
The one that mattered.
Because Brody had vanished six months ago.
She had told no one where she was working.
She had no social media.
She had moved to this county specifically because she had no connections here.
Someone had told him.
Someone who knew where she was, who wanted him here, and who had contacted him recently enough to send him to those gates at six in the morning on the same day Lorenzo Moretti began asking questions.
May you like
She looked up.
Lorenzo was watching her, and his expression told her he had reached the same conclusion at the exact same moment.
