Chapter 5 - The Trap in the Rose Garden
Sophia did not sleep that night.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed in the east gable room, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, watching the moonlight move across the small, pale face of her daughter sleeping beside her.
Her mind raced through the dark options available to a woman with sixteen dollars in her bank account and no family name.
If she walked into Lorenzo’s study tomorrow morning and accused his right-hand man and the daughter of Don Carmine Bellini of plotting to murder his child, who would he believe?
Vincent had been at Lorenzo’s side for ten years. He commanded the guards. He managed the security logs. He controlled access to the estate.
Vivian was an aristocrat of the syndicate—a woman whose family had three hundred armed men across Brooklyn and Manhattan.
Sophia was a maid who had been hired off the street three weeks ago out of charity.
If she spoke without proof, Vincent would not simply deny it; he would make sure she and Emma disappeared into the dark, cold waters of the Long Island Sound before the sun set.
She looked at Emma’s faded pink backpack sitting on the chair by the window.
I have to take her away, Sophia thought, a sudden, cold panic seizing her heart. I have to pack our things and take the morning bus back to the city.
She stood up, her legs shaking, and reached for the bag.
Then her mind saw Isabella’s pale, smiling face. She saw the little girl sitting on the rug in the west wing, holding her sweetgrass bracelet, whispering, “Sister.”
If Sophia left, who would protect Isabella from the amber bottle?
Who would stop Vincent from adding that extra drop to her glass every night until the frail little valve finally gave way?
Lorenzo was a powerful man, a feared man, a man who held the lives of dozens of people in his hands every day—yet he was completely blind to the snake sitting at his own dining table.
She set the pink backpack back down on the chair.
I can't run, she realized, her jaw setting into a tight, quiet line of determination that she had inherited from a long line of poor women who had survived by outlasting their enemies. I have to prove it.
The next morning, the estate awoke to a cold, clear spring rain.
At eight o'clock, Sophia brought Emma to the west wing as usual. Isabella was sitting up in bed, wearing a yellow woolen sweater, playing with a set of wooden building blocks Emma had brought up from the kitchen.
Nurse Brenda was sitting in the corner, reading a magazine.
At eight-thirty, Vincent Russo stepped into the room, holding a small silver tray bearing Isabella’s morning drops and a glass of water.
“Good morning, little princess,” Vincent said, his voice dripping with warm, artificial sweetness as he walked toward the bed. “Time for your morning medicine.”
Sophia was standing near the bathroom door, a polishing cloth in her hand, her whole body tense as a coiled spring. She watched Vincent’s hands like a hawk.
She saw how he stood between Nurse Brenda and the bed, his back blocking their view for two brief seconds as he uncapped the Swiss bottle. She saw his index finger twitch slightly as he held the dropper over the glass of water.
Two drops.
Three drops.
Four drops.
Instead of the prescribed two drops, he added four.
Sophia’s breath hitched in her throat. She took a step forward, her cloth clutching tightly in her fist, but Vincent had already handed the glass of water to Isabella.
“Drink it all up, Isabella,” Vincent said smoothly, patting her dark hair. “Your father wants you to grow strong.”
Isabella took the glass, looking at the water with a small, familiar frown. “It smells weird today, Vincent. It smells like sour apples.”
“It’s just a new batch from Switzerland, sweetie,” Vincent said without blinking. “Drink it down.”
Before Isabella could lift the glass to her lips, Emma stood up from the rug.
The three-year-old stepped over her wooden blocks, reached up with both hands, and grabbed the edge of the glass.
“No,” Emma said, her small voice firm and clear.
Vincent blinked, his sharp eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous annoyance. “Get away, child. This is Isabella’s medicine.”
“No,” Emma repeated, holding the glass tight with her small, pale fingers. “Mama says medicine that smells sour is angry. Sister don't drink angry water.”
With a sudden, clumsy jerk of her small arms, Emma pulled the glass out of Isabella’s hand. The glass slipped from her tiny fingers and crashed against the hard oak floorboards, shattering into twenty jagged pieces, splashing the cold, spiked water across Vincent’s expensive leather shoes.
Nurse Brenda gasped, dropping her magazine. “Oh, goodness!”
Vincent froze. For a second, his calm, handsome mask slipped entirely, revealing a face so dark, so filled with a sudden, murderous rage, that even Nurse Brenda stepped back in shock.
He reached down, his fingers curling into a tight fist as if he were about to strike the three-year-old child.
“Vincent!” a deep voice barked from the doorway.
Lorenzo Moretti stood in the hall, his dark suit coat over his arm, his gray eyes narrowing as he took in the broken glass, the spilled water, and the terrifying expression on his lieutenant’s face.
Vincent recovered instantly. He smoothed his tie, his face returning to its smooth, professional mask in the blink of an eye.
“Apologies, Boss,” Vincent said smoothly, stepping back from the shattered glass. “The maid’s child just knocked over Isabella’s morning dose. She’s getting a bit too wild to be in this wing.”
Lorenzo walked into the room, his eyes moving from the broken glass on the floor to Emma, who was standing right in front of Isabella, her tiny hands spread out defensively, her dark eyes fixed on Vincent with an instinctual, terrifying hostility.
Isabella reached down from the bed, grabbing the back of Emma’s red sweater. “She didn't mean to, Papa! The water smelled sour!”
Lorenzo looked at his daughter, then at Vincent. “Sour?”
“The Swiss courier delivered a fresh shipment yesterday, Boss,” Vincent said quickly, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his shoes. “I’ll have Nurse Brenda pour a fresh glass from the old batch in your study.”
Lorenzo stayed silent for a long moment, his gray eyes scanning the faces in the room. He did not say anything to Emma. He did not scold her. He simply reached down, picked up a large piece of the shattered glass from the floor, and sniffed it briefly.
There was no smell—the liquid was odorless to adult senses.
“Clean this up,” Lorenzo said to Nurse Brenda, dropping the piece of glass into his pocket. “Vincent, come down to the study. We have to clear the manifests for the Manhattan docks.”
As the two men walked out into the gallery, Vincent looked back over his shoulder once. His dark eyes caught Sophia’s gaze standing near the bathroom door.
It was a look that contained no warmth, no humanity, and no doubt about what would happen next.
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Sophia knew then that time had run out.
Vincent knew the maid was watching him. And in the Moretti world, a witness who could not be bought was a witness who had to be destroyed.
