Chapter 3: What the Son Found in That Room
Nora's throat tightened.
She had seen photographs of Lorenzo Moretti — the staff kept a framed one in the service corridor, more as a warning than a tribute.
But photographs had not prepared her for the way he filled a doorway.
Or the way his eyes moved, cataloguing everything in the room with the quiet efficiency of someone who had spent years looking for things people tried to hide.
"I asked you a question," Lorenzo said.
His voice was still low.
Still controlled.
"Who are you?"
"Nora," she said.
"I'm one of the maids, Mr.
Moretti.
I've been caring for your father."
"Caring for him." He stepped into the room.
His eyes went to the wheelchair — the rust along the left wheel, the worn leather of the armrests, the thin sweater Giovanni wore despite the fireplace that was, at least today, finally burning.
"How long?"
"Three months, sir."
Lorenzo crossed to the window and pushed it fully shut.
The draft died.
He turned back and looked at his father, and something moved across his face — quickly, then gone.
"The blanket on his lap," he said.
"That's not from this house."
"No, sir.
I bought it.
The ones provided weren't warm enough."
The room went very quiet.
Lorenzo looked at Nora's wrists.
The bruising had deepened overnight — purple-green along the bone, finger-shaped.
He did not look away from it.
"Who did that?"
Nora hesitated.
Down the hall, she could still hear Mrs.
Gable's voice directing the other staff, sharp and certain, the voice of a woman who had never once considered that anything might go wrong for her.
"It was an accident," Nora said.
Lorenzo's eyes came up to hers.
"Try again."
She looked at Giovanni.
His hand was still resting against hers, the grip loose now but deliberate.
His dark eyes were watching her with an expression she had come to recognize over three months of quiet evenings — patient, steady, certain.
"Mrs.
Gable," Nora said.
"She grabbed me on the staircase.
I'd told her I couldn't lift the heavy drapes because of the pregnancy.
She didn't accept that."
Lorenzo said nothing.
He walked to the small table beside the wheelchair and looked at it.
There was nothing on it — Nora had cleared away the dinner tray — but he was looking at the ring left by years of cold bowls set directly on the wood.
The watermark was shaped like a circle.
It had been there a long time.
"My father's meals," he said.
"What has he been given?"
Nora kept her voice level.
"Cold oatmeal, mostly.
Lukewarm water.
Whatever was left after the main kitchen service.
I've been bringing him proper food in the evenings when I could take it without being noticed."
Lorenzo turned to face her fully.
"You've been stealing food from my kitchen," he said, "to feed my father."
"Yes, sir."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he looked at Giovanni.
Giovanni's fingers tightened once around Nora's hand.
Just once.
Then released.
Lorenzo pulled out his phone.
He typed a single message, said nothing about what it contained, and slid it back into his pocket.
"You'll stay in this room," he told Nora.
"Don't go back downstairs tonight."
"Mr.
Moretti, Mrs.
Gable will want to know—"
"Mrs.
Gable," he said, "will be occupied."
He walked to the door, then stopped with his hand on the frame.
"What's your name again?"
"Nora."
He nodded once, as though filing it somewhere permanent.
"Nora." He glanced at his father.
"Thank you for taking care of him."
He left.
His footsteps moved down the corridor — not toward the study, not toward the main staircase.
Toward Mrs.
Gable's office.
Nora sat very still in the room that was finally warm, in the chair she had pulled beside the wheelchair three months ago, and listened to the silence of the east wing around her.
Giovanni's eyes were closed now.
His breathing was slow and even.
She pressed her hand gently over his.
"He came," she whispered.
"He actually came straight to you."
Giovanni did not open his eyes.
But the corner of his mouth moved — just slightly — in a way she had never seen before.
Down the corridor, a door opened.
May you like
Then Mrs.
Gable's voice rose — startled, then defensive, then something that sounded very much like fear.
