Chapter 4 - The Grand Entrance
Down in the grand dining room, the crystal chandeliers cast a glittering light over a table set for twenty-four guests. Dominic Santangelo sat at the head of the table, laughing heartily as his top lieutenant, Frankie "The Hammer" Moretti, recounted a story about a successful union negotiation at the docks.
To Dominic’s right sat Beatrice, radiant in a red satin gown, holding a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon. She smiled charmingly at the city councilmen across from her, radiating the effortless confidence of a woman who held absolute power over the estate.
The French caterers began serving the main course—a delicate roasted duck breast with cherry reduction.
"A toast!" Frankie called out, standing up and raising his glass. "To Don Dominic! May his reign over Providence be long, prosperous, and ruthless!"
The guests cheered, raising their glasses, ready to drink.
Before Dominic could lift his glass to his lips, the heavy double doors at the entrance of the dining room swung open with a dramatic, echoing thud.
The room fell instant, dead silent.
Standing in the doorway was Josie. She carried no silver tray. She carried no serving dishes. Her hands were entirely empty.
Beatrice’s face hardened instantly into a mask of rage. She set her champagne glass down with a sharp click.
"What is the meaning of this?" Beatrice snapped, rising to her feet, her voice cutting through the quiet room. "You are the scullery maid. How dare you burst into a private board dinner? Take Mrs. Santangelo’s tray back to her room and get downstairs. Now!"
Mrs. Gable rushed out from the pantry doorway, her face pale with terror. "Josie! What are you doing? Get back to the kitchen!"
Josie didn't run. She didn't cower. She stood straight, looking directly at Dominic Santangelo.
"I didn't bring a tray up tonight, Mr. Santangelo," Josie said, her voice ringing clear and calm across the quiet dining room. "Because your mother doesn't want to eat alone in the dark anymore."
Dominic froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What did you say?"
"She's insolent! She's out of her mind!" Beatrice shrieked, motioning wildly to two armed guards standing near the doors. "Escort this girl out of the house immediately! Throw her off the property!"
The two guards stepped toward Josie, reaching for their jackets.
"Hold on!" Dominic’s voice roared like thunder, halting the guards in their tracks. He stood up from his chair, his broad frame towering over the table, his flint-gray eyes fixed on Josie. "Let her speak."
"Dominic, darling, she’s just a confused servant," Beatrice pleaded, grabbing his arm, her voice laced with sudden panic. "Your mother is sick! You know how fragile her mind is! Seeing a crowd like this will cause her a heart attack! Please, let the guards handle it!"
Josie stepped aside from the doorway.
"She isn't sick, Mr. Santangelo," Josie said quietly. "See for yourself."
From the dimly lit hallway behind Josie, the slow, rhythmic sound of heels clicking against marble echoed through the silence.
A tall, elegant figure stepped through the threshold.
Rosaria Santangelo walked into the grand dining room under her own power. Her spine was straight, her chin lifted high, her black silk dress rustling softly as she moved. In her hands, she carried a single, covered silver serving dish.
Gasps erupted around the table.
Frankie Moretti dropped his cigar onto his plate. The city councilmen stared in utter shock. Syndicate capos who had known Rosaria for thirty years pushed back their chairs, their eyes wide with disbelief.
"M-Mother?" Dominic gasped, his voice cracking, the blood draining completely from his face.
Rosaria didn't look at the guests. She didn't look at the guards. Her fierce dark eyes swept over the room, landing directly on Beatrice, who stood frozen beside Dominic, her knuckles white as she gripped the tablecloth.
Rosaria walked steadily down the length of the long table, her steps unhurried, commanding absolute reverence. She stopped right at the head of the table, where Dominic stood trembling.
"Happy birthday, my son," Rosaria said, her voice rich, deep, and steady, carrying the authority of a woman who had ruled Providence long before Beatrice ever stepped into the city.
"Mother... how... the doctor said you couldn't walk," Dominic stammered, tears springing to his tough, weathered eyes. "He said you were slipping away... that your mind was gone..."
"The doctor was paid to lie to you, Dominic," Rosaria said coldly.
"That's a lie!" Beatrice screamed, her voice cracking into a high-pitched hysterical screech. "Dominic, she’s delusional! The disease makes her confused! She doesn't know what she's saying!"
Rosaria didn't even look at Beatrice. She simply set the covered silver serving dish down right in front of Dominic’s plate. She lifted the silver lid.
The rich, heavenly aroma of slow-braised calf shanks, garlic, fresh rosemary, and saffron risotto instantly filled the grand room, overpowering the delicate scent of the French catering.
Dominic stared down at the plate. His breath hitched sharply. He recognized the smell instantly—it was the exact scent of his childhood, the meal his mother had made him every single birthday for forty years.
"You... you cooked this?" Dominic whispered, looking at his mother’s face.
"I cooked it with Josie’s help," Rosaria said softly. "Because for seven months, Dominic, I have not been sick. I have been locked in my room, heavily drugged, and starved."
A deadly, icy silence dropped over the room.
Dominic’s head snapped toward his wife. "What is she talking about?"
May you like
"She’s lying! She’s crazy!" Beatrice shouted, her hands trembling violently. "Ask Mrs. Gable! Ask the nurse! We have been feeding her every single night! She eats half her plate every evening!"
Rosaria turned her head slowly, looking at Josie. "Josie. Tell my son what happens to my food every night at half-past seven."
