Chapter 2 - The Pattern of Shadows
For two full weeks, Josie observed the terrifying choreography of the Santangelo household. Every night was a carbon copy of the first. At seven o'clock, a pristine, nutrient-rich meal went up to the third floor. At half-past seven, it came down entirely untouched. And every night, either Mrs. Gable or Beatrice Santangelo herself would step into the scullery to alter the food, scraping portions into the garbage, smearing sauces across the plates, and making sure the empty dishes presented to Dominic told a comforting lie.
"She ate nearly half her braised veal tonight, Dominic," Beatrice would say in her smooth, melodious voice as she brushed a kiss against her husband’s cheek in the study. "The poor dear is so tired, but she's trying. The doctor says her vitals are stable. We just need to let her rest peacefully upstairs."
Dominic would sigh, his rugged, hardened face softening with a mixture of guilt and relief. "Thank you, Beatrice. I don't know what I'd do without you taking care of her. I can handle the syndicate, but seeing my mother fade like this... it breaks my heart."
"I know, my love. I handle it so you don't have to carry the burden," Beatrice would reply, her dark eyes glittering with a cold, triumphant light.
Josie watched these interactions from the kitchen doorway, her jaw clenched tight. She had begun to do her own quiet investigating during her morning prep work. She noticed that the medicine bottles sent up to Rosaria’s room were labeled with sedatives—heavy, high-dose tranquilizers prescribed by a private doctor who was paid directly by Beatrice, bypassing the main family physicians.
Rosaria wasn't dying of old age. She was being heavily drugged into a state of catatonic paralysis, sitting silently in her darkened room day after day, while her daughter-in-law systematically erased her presence from the house.
Why? Josie needed to know why.
The answer came on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Josie was tasked with cleaning the high brass fixtures in the library adjacent to Dominic’s private office. The heavy velvet curtains hid her behind the oak bookshelves when Beatrice entered the room, accompanied by her younger brother, Julian—a slick, arrogant man who managed the syndicate’s real estate holdings.
"Dominic signed the paper for the waterfront property today," Julian whispered, his voice tinged with excitement. "Once we liquidate the docks, we’ll clear four million."
"Keep your voice down," Beatrice snapped softly, pouring herself two fingers of scotch from the crystal decanter. "That’s small money. The real prize is the original Santangelo holdings in Sicily and the family trust here in Rhode Island. Thirty million dollars in liquid bonds."
"When does Dominic inherit?" Julian asked.
"He doesn't," Beatrice sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "Old Rosaria refused to sign the trust transfer over to Dominic two years ago. She knew he would let me manage it. The old bat made a ironclad clause in her will: the trust remains entirely in her name until her death, but if she is ruled mentally incompetent due to illness, total power of attorney passes automatically to me as her designated primary caregiver."
Josie held her breath behind the bookshelf, her heart pounding so loudly she feared they would hear it.
"And Dominic hasn't questioned it?" Julian pressed.
"Dominic is a mobster, not a lawyer," Beatrice laughed quietly. "He fears nothing on the streets, but he is terrified of watching his mother suffer. He can't bear to see her like that, so he stays out of her room. I bring him the 'eaten' plates, the doctor’s forged reports, and tell him she’s peaceful. In another month, the doctor will declare her mind completely deteriorated. Power of attorney will be mine, I'll transfer the trust, and then... the old woman can finally stop breathing."
Josie squeezed her eyes shut, horror rushing through her veins like ice water. It was a cold, calculated, execution disguised as a merciful decline. Beatrice was using Rosaria’s own son's love and grief as a blindfold, keeping Dominic out of the third-floor suite while she systematically stole the family fortune and starved the matriarch to death.
That evening, Josie carried the silver tray up to the third floor at seven o'clock as usual. But this time, she didn't just drop the tray off and walk away.
She stepped deep into the room and closed the heavy oak door behind her.
She walked over to the wingback chair where Rosaria sat, her white hair shining faintly in the dim lamp light. Josie knelt beside the chair, setting the bowl of warm potato and leek soup on the small side table.
"Mrs. Santangelo?" Josie whispered gently, reaching out to lay her warm hand over the old woman’s cold, frail fingers.
Rosaria didn't move at first. But as Josie’s skin touched hers, a tiny, involuntary tremor ran through the old woman’s frame. Slowly—painfully slowly—Rosaria’s head turned. Her sunken, dark eyes met Josie’s.
There was no madness in those eyes. There was no dementia, no fading mind. There was only an agonizing, desperate terror—and a profound, aching hunger.
Rosaria’s pale lips trembled, parting slightly. She tried to lift her arm, but the heavy sedatives held her muscles in invisible chains.
"I know," Josie murmured, tears pricking her eyes as she looked into the old woman’s gaze. "I know what they're doing to you. You aren't crazy. You aren't sick."
Josie picked up the silver spoon, dipped it into the warm soup, and brought it gently to Rosaria’s lips.
Rosaria parted her lips and swallowed. A tear spilled from her aged eye, rolling down the deep wrinkles of her cheek. She took another spoon, then another, swallowing desperately, as if tasting life itself for the first time in months.
May you like
"Listen to me, Rosaria," Josie whispered, holding the spoon steady as the old woman ate. "I'm going to get you out of this chair. But you have to help me. When the medicine comes tomorrow, do not swallow it. Hold it under your tongue. We are going to give you your voice back."
Rosaria gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. For the first time in seven months, the shadow in her eyes flickered with a tiny spark of hope.
