Chapter 1 - The Translation of Blood
“Does anybody understand what the hell she’s saying?”
The crystal wine glass hit the marble floor before anyone could answer. It exploded beside an antique dining chair that probably cost more than my Honda Civic.
Thirty people in tailored suits and silk gowns went dead silent.
At the center of the Moretti dining room, eighty-two-year-old Amelia Moretti was fighting off two personal doctors, three panicked relatives, and her family’s absolute conviction that she had finally lost her mind.
“No. No. L’incendio,” she gasped, her pale skin translucent under the crystal chandelier. Her white hair had slipped loose from its silver pins, falling across her forehead. One hand clutched her lace collar, while the other slapped away a physician reaching for her wrist with a tranquilizer needle. “Mico. A marina. Iddu mentiu.”
“She’s confused again,” a woman whispered near the sideboard.
“Give her the sedative, for God’s sake.”
“She shouldn’t be downstairs.”
“Lorenzo, do something about your grandmother.”
I stopped near the swinging kitchen doors, a silver tray of untouched tiramisu balanced against my hip. Doing nothing was literally part of my contract. I worked for a high-end Chicago catering company—weddings, political galas, and Lake Forest estate dinners. The golden rule of private event service was simple: serve the food, pour the wine, and remain completely invisible.
That rule applied double inside Lorenzo Moretti’s Gold Coast mansion.
Everyone in Chicago knew the Moretti name. Depending on who you asked, Lorenzo owned high-end steak restaurants, commercial real estate, parking garages, and half the city council. Depending on who you asked in hushed tones, he inherited control of the Syndicate after his father died fourteen years ago.
I had spent the last four hours keeping my head down, nursing my aching feet, and avoiding eye contact. Then Amelia screamed another broken sentence, and my stomach plummeted.
She wasn’t having a psychotic break. She was terrified.
I set down the dessert tray on a side table. My supervisor, Denise, caught my wrist immediately. “Claire. Absolutely not. Touch nothing, say nothing.”
“She’s having a panic attack because nobody understands her,” I muttered.
“She has two private doctors, Claire! Look at your uniform. This isn’t our business.”
“They’re trying to drug her for speaking an old language.”
I pulled my wrist free. I was five-foot-seven, plus-size, and wearing a grey service uniform designed by someone who clearly thought curves were a personal flaw. Nothing about me belonged near the diamonds and Armani surrounding that thirty-foot mahogany table.
That was probably why Lorenzo noticed me the second I stepped onto the Persian rug.
“Stop right there,” he said.
He didn't yell. He didn't have to. The quiet authority in his voice halted every movement in the room.
Lorenzo Moretti stood at the head of the table. Late thirties, dark hair, sharp jawline, and eyes like black ice. The stillness surrounding him was far scarier than any raised voice.
“What are you doing?” he asked me.
“Trying to help her.”
“My grandmother has medical staff.”
“Your medical staff thinks she’s babbling nonsense because they don't speak what she’s speaking.”
One doctor frowned. “Italian? We have an Italian speaker on call—”
“It’s not standard Italian,” I interrupted.
Lorenzo’s dark eyes narrowed instantly. “Then what is it?”
“An old, archaic Calabrian dialect. Almost dead. Only spoken in tiny mountain villages eighty years ago.”
A silver-haired man halfway down the table twitched, his fork scraping loudly against his china plate. Vittorio Moretti. Lorenzo’s uncle and the family’s senior financial adviser. I filed his reaction away. I had spent thirty-four years being overlooked, which meant I had spent thirty-four years watching people’s faces when they thought no one was paying attention.
Lorenzo took a step toward me. “Can you understand what she’s saying?”
“Yes.”
Amelia saw me looking at her. Her thrashing stopped. I took a slow breath and spoke softly across the silent room.
“Signora. Non vi tocco. Sugnu cca. Vi sentu.” (I won’t touch you. I’m right here. I hear you.)
Amelia’s face crumpled. She burst into tears—not confused tears, but the desperate sob of someone who had been trapped behind a glass wall for years. She reached out, grabbing my hands with surprising strength.
“Mico,” she whimpered, her fingers knotting into mine. “A marina. Bell’Acqua. L’incendio. Iddu mentiu.”
Lorenzo moved until he was standing right beside me. I could smell the faint scent of sandalwood, leather, and rain on his coat. “Translate it. Now.”
“She said a name first. Michael.”
A wineglass slipped from Vittorio’s fingers, spilling dark Cabernet across the white linen.
“What else?” Lorenzo demanded.
“She keeps mentioning a place called Bell’Acqua Marina. And a fire.”
Silence descended like a physical weight. Amelia squeezed my knuckles so hard my skin went numb. Then she leaned up and whispered one final, clear sentence against my cheek.
I froze.
“Claire,” Lorenzo’s voice was warning low. “What did she just say?”
I swallowed hard, looking straight at Vittorio before turning to Lorenzo.
May you like
“She said: My son didn't die in an accident. He died because I was too afraid of Vittorio to tell the truth.”
The dining room completely shattered.
