Chapter 2 - THE SUNLIGHT IN THE EAST WING
Three weeks after the gala, the east wing of the Russo estate bore little resemblance to the gloomy sanctuary Vincent had avoided for months.
Where heavy velvet drapery had once sealed out the daylight, sunlight now poured through wide glass panes, washing over polished oak floors and vases filled with fresh-cut yellow roses. The oppressive smell of antiseptic and stale tea had vanished, replaced by the crisp scent of lemon polish and lavender.
Vincent walked down the carpeted hallway toward his mother’s suite, adjusting the cuffs of his dark grey suit. He had spent the morning dealing with extortion threats on the docks of Brooklyn, surrounded by men whose language consisted entirely of violence and posturing. His head throbbed behind his temples, a dull, familiar ache born of endless strain.
He paused outside the oak door, hearing a sharp, upbeat rhythm floating into the corridor.
It was 1950s swing music—brass trumpets playing over a driving drumbeat.
Vincent pushed the door open quietly.
Camila was standing in the center of the sunlit sitting room, wearing a floral silk dress instead of her usual faded nightgown. Her gray hair was pinned back neatly with a silver clasp. She held both of Nora’s hands, her steps uncertain but her expression radiant.
Nora wore plain jeans and a dark green sweater, her dark hair pulled back into a simple braid. She exaggerated her footwork, moving backward in small, careful increments to keep Camila balanced.
“Step, tap. Step, tap,” Nora counted softly, her voice light and patient. “You’ve got the rhythm, Camila. Keep your shoulders loose.”
“Thomas and I used to dance like this,” Camila said, her breath coming in short, happy puffs. “At the Copacabana. Before the rain started.”
“I bet you were the best-looking couple in the entire room,” Nora replied, spinning her gently under her arm.
Camila stumbled slightly on the turn, but Nora caught her waist instantly, absorbing the weight without breaking her warm smile, turning the misstep into a sweeping dip. Camila let out a clear, musical laugh that echoed through the high ceilings.
Vincent stood frozen near the threshold.
He could not remember the last time he had heard his mother laugh like that. It was a sound from his childhood, from a time before his father was buried in a bronze casket, before Vincent had been forced to take up the mantle of a crime syndicate to keep their family alive.
Camila caught sight of him over Nora’s shoulder.
“Vincent!” she exclaimed, her face brightening. “Look! Thomas bought me a new dress for the party!”
The phantom reality had returned, but there was no terror in it today. No confusion or panic.
Nora turned, guiding Camila smoothly toward a cushioned armchair. “Sit down for a moment, Camila. I’ll pour us some tea.” She draped a knitted blanket over Camila’s knees, then glanced toward Vincent.
Her eyes were cool, professional, and entirely unawed by his presence.
“Mr. Russo,” she said, stepping toward the small kitchenette in the corner. “You look like you haven’t slept since Tuesday.”
“I haven't,” Vincent admitted, his voice lower than usual. He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the transformation. The dark mahogany furniture was dusted, old medical equipment had been moved into the adjoining closet out of sight, and a stack of photo albums sat on the coffee table. “What is all this?”
“It’s called living,” Nora said, setting a porcelain teacup onto a tray. She kept her back to him as she poured boiling water. “She doesn't need to be locked in the dark with a nurse who treats her like a terminal patient. She needs movement. She needs memories that don't hurt.”
Vincent approached the armchair and sat on the low footstool beside his mother. Camila reached out, her thin, age-spotted hand resting against his jaw. Her skin felt warm.
“You look tired, my boy,” Camila murmured softly. “You work too hard for Thomas.”
“I know, Ma,” Vincent whispered, leaning into her palm for a brief, fleeting second, closing his eyes. “I’m taking care of it.”
When he opened his eyes, he saw Nora watching him from the kitchenette.
There was no judgment in her gaze, but there was something far more dangerous: understanding. She saw the heavy burden resting on his shoulders. She saw that beneath the tailored suit and the cold reputation of a mafia boss was a son desperately trying to preserve what little humanity he had left.
Nora walked over and placed a cup of black coffee on the side table beside him. “No sugar. No milk. You look like you need the bitter kind.”
Vincent looked at the dark liquid, then up at her. Her wrists were still lightly bandaged beneath her sweater sleeves where the crystal had cut her three weeks ago.
“How are your hands?” he asked quietly.
Nora looked down at her fingers, flexing them slightly. “They’re fine. The skin healed.”
“And the diner?”
“I quit,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “Your five-times-multiplier made standing on my feet for eight hours after a twelve-hour shift here completely redundant. I actually slept six hours last night. It was weird.”
A faint trace of a smile touched the corner of Vincent’s mouth. “A terrifying experience, I’m sure.”
“Horrifying,” Nora agreed, her dark eyes locking onto his. “My landlord almost didn't recognize me without the dark circles under my eyes.”
Camila drifted off to sleep in her chair, soothed by the warm sunlight and the faint jazz music lingering from the radio.
Vincent stood up, gesturing toward the hallway. Nora followed him out, stepping into the quiet corridor and pulling the oak door shut until it clicked softly.
“She ate all her lunch today,” Nora reported, stepping into her professional stance, crossing her arms. “Chicken soup and half an apple. She remembers her past clearly, but her short-term memory is completely shot. If you bring up your father’s death, she panics. So I don't.”
“She’s happy,” Vincent said. It was not a compliment; it was a simple, profound statement of fact. “No one has been able to do that for her in five years.”
“She just wanted someone to talk to her like a human being,” Nora replied simply. “Not a medical condition.”
Vincent reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thick, unmarked white envelope. He held it out to her.
Nora looked at it without taking it. “It’s not Friday.”
“It’s a bonus,” Vincent said. “For the windows. For the music. For... my mother.”
Nora stared at the envelope for a long three seconds. Then, slowly, she shook her head and pushed his hand back toward his chest.
“I take what we agreed on, Mr. Russo. Not a penny more.”
Vincent frowned, unaccustomed to anyone refusing money from him. “Why?”
“Because if I take your bonuses, I become dependent on your generosity,” Nora said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp edge of independence. “And in my experience, men like you don't give extra money without expecting extra control. I like my boundaries exactly where they are.”
Before Vincent could respond, the heavy footsteps of his underboss, Paulie, echoed from the far end of the hallway.
Paulie walked quickly, his face grim, his hand resting near his jacket closure. He stopped a few feet away, casting a sharp, suspicious glance at Nora before leaning in toward Vincent’s ear.
“Boss,” Paulie whispered loudly enough for the tension to fill the corridor. “Carmine Gallow is at the front gate. He brought four cars. He’s demanding to see you about the Brooklyn docks.”
The brief warmth that had settled in Vincent’s chest evaporated instantly. The cold, ruthless commander returned, his jaw tightening, his eyes hardening into flint.
“Tell him I’ll be down in two minutes,” Vincent ordered coldly.
Paulie nodded and hurried back toward the grand staircase.
Vincent turned back to Nora. She stood her ground, watching the transition from gentle son to terrifying mob boss without taking a single step backward.
“Stay in the east wing today,” Vincent said, his voice clipped and precise. “Don't come downstairs until I send Paulie to tell you the house is clear.”
“Is there going to be trouble?” Nora asked quietly.
May you like
Vincent glanced toward his mother’s room, then looked down at Nora’s calm face.
“Not in this house,” Vincent said, a dark promise underlying his words. “Not while you’re here.”
