Chapter 2 - THE BRUISES
The rain started around midnight, drumming a heavy, monotonous rhythm against the slate roof of the Manor. Luca did not sleep. He sat in the dark of his study, the embers of the hearth glowing like the eye of an angry beast, turning over the memory of Elena’s face when she found her daughter in his chair.
It wasn't merely the fear of an employee caught trespassing in the sanctum of a dangerous man. It was something older. Something frayed and raw, like a tendon stretched too many times.
He rose silently, leaving his coat behind, and walked the carpeted length of the west corridor toward the domestic wing. The servants' quarters were located in the renovated carriage house behind the main kitchen—a space connected by a secure, climate-controlled glass bridge.
The estate was quiet, save for the wind whistling through the cypress trees outside. He reached the heavy fire door leading to the staff quarters and pushed it open. A single amber hallway light hummed softly overhead.
He stopped outside Elena’s door. Room 14.
He hadn't intended to knock. He had only intended to check the perimeter, to satisfy a growing, nameless itch beneath his skin. But as he raised his hand, a soft sound from within the room made him freeze.
It was a suppressed sob. Quick, desperate, trying to swallow itself before it woke the child sleeping nearby.
Luca didn't knock. He pressed the heavy brass handle down. The latch was old and gave way with barely a click.
The room was small, lit only by the pale streetlamps filtering through a rain-streaked window. Elena sat on the edge of a narrow cot, her back to the door, her shoulders shaking rhythmically. On the small iron bed beside her, little Mia was curled into a tight ball, clutching her cotton blanket, fast asleep.
Elena was holding her left wrist with her right hand, her fingers pressing frantically against the skin as if trying to squeeze the pain out of the bone.
"Elena," Luca said softly.
She vaulted off the bed with a sharp gasp, spinning around so fast she nearly knocked over the bedside lamp. Her face was stark white, her eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. She threw herself back against the wall, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Mr. Moretti! I... I swear I didn't mean to wake you. We were just—she was having a bad dream—"
"Quiet," Luca said, his voice dropping into that low, level register that had made hardened syndicate captains lower their eyes in federal courtrooms.
He took two steps into the cramped room, closing the door behind him with a silent click. He reached out and caught her right wrist before she could tuck it behind her back.
She flinched violently, a low moan escaping her lips.
"Look at me," Luca commanded.
Reluctantly, her chin lifted. In the amber wash of the streetlamp, the damage was undeniable. Circling her pale wrist were distinct, dark purple bruises—the unmistakable pattern of thick fingers pressing hard enough to crack skin. Not a fall. Not an accidental bump against a doorframe. A grip. A violent, deliberate squeeze.
"Who did this?" Luca asked.
The temperature in the small room seemed to drop ten degrees. The casual, almost indifferent syndicate boss who had signed shipping contracts with a fountain pen was gone; in his place stood the man who owned the northern shore.
Elena stared at him, terror vibrating in her chest. "Nobody, sir. I... I caught it on the laundry cart. A heavy latch. It was my fault."
"Do not lie to me, Elena," he said, his thumb brushing lightly—almost tenderly—over the swollen discoloration on her wrist. "I have broken enough bones in my life to know the signature of a closed fist versus a metal latch. Who touched you?"
Tears finally spilled over her lower lashes, cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "It doesn't matter, Mr. Moretti. Please. If you care about this house... if you care about the peace of your estate... you must let it go. Some men... some debts cannot be settled with a gun."
"Try me," Luca whispered.
Before Elena could answer, a soft rustle came from the cot behind her. Little Mia stirred, her small eyes blinking open against the dark. She sat up, rubbing her cheek against her shoulder, and looked straight past her mother at Luca.
May you like
"Uncle Luca?" the child murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "Did you tell the bad men to go away?"
Luca looked down at the little girl, then back at the bruised wrist of her mother. The nail had been driven into old wood. And now, the head of it was beginning to show.
