Chapter 3 - THE MAPLE TREE IN FEBRUARY
By the middle of February, the snow on the Duca estate had packed into a hard, crystalline crust that groaned underfoot like dry bone.
The sun had finally emerged after two weeks of gray gloom—a pale, brilliant disc hanging low in the northern sky, casting long, blue-tinted shadows across the terraced gardens. The wind had dropped to a whisper, though the temperature remained stubbornly at twenty-four degrees.
Under the bare maple tree near the lower fountain, Emma sat on her folded towel.
She was wearing a thick red knitted cap that her mother had finished making two nights ago, a green wool coat with brass buttons, and small yellow rubber boots that made a wet crunch every time she shifted her feet against the frozen turf.
Between her boots sat the old wooden basin.
It was an antique piece—carved from a single block of Tuscan chestnut fifty years ago by Lorenzo’s grandfather—filled with hot water that Sophia had brought down from the kitchen ten minutes earlier. Steam rose from the surface in gentle white tendrils, carrying the clean, herbal scent of crushed mint leaves, chamomile flowers, and two drops of almond oil.
Isabella sat above her in her wheelchair, wrapped to her chin in her charcoal cashmere blanket.
Her cheeks, usually pale as porcelain, were flushed pink by the biting air. Her dark eyes were fixed on the water in the basin.
"It's too hot," Isabella said, though her voice carried no real complaint.
"It's not too hot," Emma said, dunking her hands directly into the steaming water without hesitation. "It's warm like a duck."
"Ducks aren't warm. They live in ice ponds."
"My duck is warm," Emma insisted, pulling a square linen towel from her coat pocket and wringing it out with both hands. "He lives in my head."
She leaned forward, her red cap slipping sideways over her wild honey-colored curls, and wrapped the warm, wet towel around Isabella’s left ankle.
Isabella did not move. She could not feel the heat of the water, the coarseness of the linen, or the pressure of the small hands pressing against her skin.
"Do you feel the duck?" Emma asked, looking up.
"No," Isabella murmured, looking away toward the frozen fountain. "I don't feel anything."
"That's because your legs are still sleeping," Emma said simply, as if explaining why the sun went down at night. "When my arm sleeps after I lie on it, it feels like small needles. Then it gets happy again."
"It's been three years, Emma," Isabella said softly. She reached down with her thin fingers and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Doctors said the nerves are broken. Broken things don't fix themselves."
"My rabbit’s ear was broken," Emma said, wringing out the towel again and letting warm water drip over Isabella’s green velvet slipper. "Mommy sewed it with blue thread. Now it’s stronger than the other ear."
"You can't sew nerves with thread."
"You can sew them with stories," Emma declared firmly. She dropped the towel back into the basin with a splash that sent warm droplets flying onto her green coat. "Grandma Maria said every part of your body has a story. If you forget the story, that part goes to sleep. You just have to remind them."
"What story do my legs have?"
Emma sat back on her heels, her small hands resting on her knees, her red-capped head tilted in deep thought.
"Your left leg," Emma announced, pointing a finger at Isabella’s slipper, "is a red horse. He likes to run through the tall grass near the river. But he got tired because he ran all the way from Italy, so he’s taking a nap."
Isabella looked at her left foot. "And the right leg?"
"The right leg is a white dog," Emma said promptly. "He’s chasing the horse. But he won't go without him."
Isabella’s mouth twitched.
It was the same tiny, fragile movement Lorenzo had spotted from his second-floor window two weeks earlier—the faint, tentative beginning of a smile that seemed almost afraid of its own existence.
"That's a silly story," Isabella whispered.
"It’s not silly," Emma said, reaching out and gently tapping the toe of the left slipper with her small wooden spoon. "Wake up, red horse. The dog is waiting."
Twenty feet above them, on the stone terrace behind the balustrade, Lorenzo stood completely still.
He was wearing his long black cashmere overcoat, his hands tucked deep into his pockets, his wool scarf turned up against the chill. He had been standing there for twenty minutes, ignoring the biting wind that made his eyes water, watching the two little girls beneath the maple tree.
Behind him, the heavy glass door opened with a soft hiss of rubber gaskets.
Marco stepped onto the terrace, holding a satellite telephone in a leather case.
"Boss," Marco said quietly. "The Port Authority commissioner is on line one. He says the Mayor’s office wants to sign the agreement for the new container terminal at noon tomorrow."
Lorenzo did not look back. "Tell him I’ll sign it at three."
"He says the Mayor has a press conference scheduled for two—"
"Then the Mayor can reschedule his press conference," Lorenzo said, his tone icy and absolute. "My schedule is not dictated by men who need television cameras to feel important."
Marco hesitated, then bowed his head. "Yes, Boss."
He turned to leave, but Lorenzo raised a hand.
"Marco."
"Sir?"
Lorenzo gestured with a tilt of his head toward the two children below. "Look at them."
Marco walked to the balustrade, leaned his forearms against the cold granite, and looked down.
Emma was currently trying to teach Isabella a song about three green frogs who lived in a shoe—a song that involved much splashing of warm water and dramatic waving of the wooden spoon. Isabella was laughing out loud now—not just a faint smile, but a clear, musical laugh that drifted up through the clear winter air like a bird taking flight.
Marco watched them for a moment. The hard lines around his eyes softened, his scarred jaw relaxing.
"She looks like her mother when she laughs like that," Marco said softly. "Elena had that same way of tilting her head back."
"Yes," Lorenzo whispered.
"The maid’s kid... she’s something else," Marco added with a faint shake of his head. "Tommy told me yesterday she tried to give him a cold French fry through the gate bars. Told him it was a gold bar from a pirate ship."
"She has no fear," Lorenzo said. "Because nobody has taught her to be afraid yet. That is a rare thing in this house."
He turned his head to look at Marco.
"What is the status of the Moretti situation?"
Marco’s expression instantly returned to its default setting of vigilant hostility. "The stolen Explorer was traced back to a chop shop in Elizabeth. The kid who was driving it—Salvatore’s nephew, Nicky—was picked up by the Jersey State Police three hours ago for possessing an unlicensed firearm. Salvatore’s lawyer is trying to get him out on bail, but the judge is a former federal prosecutor who doesn't like Morettis."
"Good," Lorenzo said. "Keep pressure on their haulage lines in Newark. I want every truck carrying Moretti cargo delayed at the scales for four hours minimum."
"Understood."
"And Marco?"
"Yes, Boss?"
"Make sure the guards at the gate have hot soup tonight," Lorenzo said, turning to walk toward the terrace doors. "It's going to drop to fifteen degrees after sunset."
As Lorenzo reached the glass doors, he stopped and looked down one last time.
Emma had finished her frog song. She was kneeling beside Isabella’s wheelchair, her red-capped head resting directly on Isabella’s cashmere blanket, her small hand holding Isabella’s left hand tightly.
And Isabella—for the first time in three years—was reaching down with her right hand, gently touching Emma’s wild honey curls, her fingers twirling a lock of hair with quiet, peaceful affection.
Lorenzo felt a strange, unfamiliar tightness in his chest—a feeling so sharp, so intense, that for a moment he thought his own heart was failing.
He realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, what it was.
It was not pain.
May you like
It was hope.
And as he stepped back into the warm, silent luxury of his mansion, Lorenzo Duca swore to whatever God was listening that if anyone tried to destroy that hope, he would tear the world apart to protect it.
