Chapter 2 - The House of Broken Locks
The space behind the velvet curtain was three feet deep, but it felt like the inside of a coffin.
I could feel Emma’s small, warm breath against my palm, damp and rapid. Her heart was beating like a trapped sparrow against my ribs. Through the small slit where the green velvet met the dark oak paneling, I could see the silhouette of Enzo’s shoulder. He was standing near the desk, his body slightly angled toward the window alcove, his fingers twitching against the seam of his trousers.
"The maid," Alessandro said, his voice slow and heavy, "is not here."
"Her vacuum is running in the corridor," Enzo said. His voice was too quiet, too reasonable. He was a man who had spent his life looking for the seams in other people’s stories, and he had just found one. "She’s been cleaning the west wing since nine. I saw her cart by the linen closet when I came up."
"She went to the basement," Alessandro said. "I sent her to fetch the winter blankets from the storage trunks. The heating in this house is drafty today."
"With her vacuum still plugged in?" Enzo asked. He took a step toward the window. "That’s not like Sarah. She’s meticulous. That’s why we keep her on the private quarters."
"Enzo," Alessandro’s voice was like the strike of an iron bell. "Are you questioning my ledger?"
Enzo stopped. The shadow of his boots retreated three inches. "No, boss. Of course not. I'm just looking at the perimeter. If someone switched the canister, they had to know your schedule. They had to know you were due for a refill today. They had to know you would be alone in this room after the noon meeting."
"Who delivered the mail to the desk?" Alessandro asked.
"Victor," Enzo said without hesitation. "He brought the leather pouch up from the gatehouse at eleven. He said he wanted to review the docks report before the lunch meeting, but you were on the phone with the Chicago people, so he left the mail on the blotter."
Victor.
Victor "The Anchor" Bianchi.
The name ran through my head like a cold current. I didn't know much about the internal hierarchy of the Moretti family—it was safer to keep my eyes on the floor and my ears closed—but everyone who worked at Blackwater House knew Victor. He was Alessandro’s oldest friend. They had grown up in the same cold-water flat on Cherry Street in the sixties. When Alessandro’s father was killed by the old Lucchese captains, Victor had been the one who stood behind him with a sawed-off shotgun while Alessandro took his first seat at the table.
Victor was the family's anchor. He handled the shipping lanes, the unions, and the massive warehouse districts along the East River. He was the only man in New York who could enter Alessandro’s office without knocking.
"Victor," Alessandro murmured. He did not sound surprised. He sounded tired, with a deep, ancient exhaustion that had nothing to do with his lungs. "He was at the gatehouse?"
"Yes," Enzo said. "He was talking to the guards about the new security cameras. The ones we installed along the north wall last week."
"Ada," Alessandro said, turning back to the doctor. "Take the canister. Run the chemical profile at your private lab. I want to know the exact manufacturer of the solvent. Not the brand—the batch number. Every industrial chemical has an identifier. Find out who bought it."
Dr. Vance nodded. She slipped the plastic bag into her leather case, zipped it shut, and picked up her coat. "And you, Alessandro? Your bronchial tubes are severely inflamed. You need real albuterol. Not... whatever this is."
She pointed to the pink plastic inhaler that was still sitting in Alessandro’s palm.
Alessandro looked down at the pink tube. "I have what I need for now. Go out through the kitchen. Do not use the main drive. Enzo, see her to her car."
"What about the maid?" Enzo asked, his eyes lingering on the vacuum’s distant hum. "Should I find her?"
"I will handle the maid," Alessandro said. "Go."
The heavy mahogany door opened and closed. The sound of their footsteps faded down the long, carpeted corridor, followed by the distant, sudden silence of the vacuum cleaner being switched off. Enzo had unplugged it.
Behind the curtain, I let my hand fall from Emma’s mouth.
My fingers were shaking so violently I couldn't untie my apron. I stepped out from behind the green velvet, holding Emma close to my hip. The light in the study had changed; the afternoon storm had grown darker, turning the tall windows into gray mirrors that reflected our small, pale faces.
Alessandro was sitting in his large leather chair. He had placed the pink inhaler on the desk, right next to a silver-framed photograph of his late wife, Sophia, who had died of cancer twelve years ago.
"You have a clean record, Sarah," he said without looking up at me. "I had my people run your name before I let you into this house. No arrests. No associations with the families in Brooklyn or New Jersey. A father who died in the shipyards when you were ten. A mother who lives in a municipal home in Queens. Why did you lie about your address?"
The question was a quiet blade.
"I didn't lie," I whispered. "I... I sublet. The apartment on East 115th is under my cousin's name. If the landlord knew I had a child there, he would throw us out. The building is not zoned for children. The fire escapes are rusted through."
"And your mother?" Alessandro asked, his gray eyes finally lifting to meet mine. "Beatrice Geller. She worked the laundry for the old Bonanno crew in the eighties. Did she tell you who I was before you took this job?"
I felt the room tilt.
"My mother has dementia, Mr. Moretti," I said, the words spilling out in a cold panic. "She doesn't know who I am half the time. She doesn't know what year it is. She took this job for me because we were starving. The bills from the pediatric clinic... they were six thousand dollars. They were going to garnish my wages. I didn't know who you were. I just knew you paid twenty dollars an hour and didn't ask for a tax form."
Alessandro leaned back in his chair. He looked at Emma, who had wandered toward the desk, her eyes fixed on the silver pen tray. She didn't seem to understand the danger of the room; she only saw the shiny things, the heavy books, and the man who had her medicine.
"She has the courage of her grandfather," Alessandro said softly. "Old Arthur Geller. He was a dockworker. He stood up to the Irish union bosses in '74 when they tried to lock the gates on the Italian crews. They broke both of his knees with iron pipes, but he never gave them the ledger."
He reached out and picked up the pink inhaler, holding it out to Emma.
"Here," he said. "Take it back."
Emma took it, her small fingers curling around the plastic. "Do you have another one?" she asked.
"Emma, don't," I warned.
"No," Alessandro said, his gray eyes softening by a fraction of an inch. "I do not have another one, Emma. But I will have many of them soon. More than you can count."
He looked at me. "Your mother is in the St. Jude Home in Queens?"
"Yes," I said.
"And who pays for that?"
"I do," I said. "And my brother. But he... he went to prison last year. So now it’s just me."
Alessandro tapped his thick fingers against the arm of his chair. "Victor Bianchi’s sister is the chief administrator at St. Jude. Did you know that, Sarah?"
My breath caught in my throat.
"No," I whispered.
"She handles the admissions," Alessandro said. "She handles the billing. And she is very close to her brother. If Victor wanted to know who worked in my private quarters... if he wanted to find someone with a mother who could be used as a lever... he would not have to look very far."
He stood up, his massive frame blotting out the gray light of the window.
"The vacuum is off," he said. "The house is quiet. Enzo will be back in five minutes. If he finds you here, he will have to ask questions I am not ready to answer. Go back to the laundry room. Take the service stairs. Do not leave Blackwater House until I tell you."
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"But my shift ends at four," I said, my voice rising in panic. "The bus—"
"You do not leave," Alessandro said. His voice was no longer that of a man who had been saved; it was the voice of a king who had just declared a state of siege. "Your apartment is no longer safe. Your mother is no longer safe. And if Victor finds out that a five-year-old girl smelled his poison before I could breathe it... she will not need her medicine anymore."
