Chapter 8 - The Photograph in the Kitchen
“Where are you going?”
Roman’s voice was quiet, but it stopped me in my tracks.
I turned around. He stood in the arched doorway of the dining room. Behind him, the flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers painted the windows. Officers were handcuffing Samuel and escorting a pale, silent Carlo out the front doors.
Victoria was already gone, having fled into the night with nothing but her white coat.
“I’m going to pack my things, Mr. Bellini,” I said, clutching my folded apron against my chest. “The dinner is over. You and your family need privacy.”
Roman walked slowly down the hall toward me. He looked exhausted, the weight of the last hour pulling at the corners of his eyes.
“You’re quitting?” he asked.
“It feels like the right time,” I said softly.
He stopped a few feet away. “Nora, if it weren’t for you pulling that tablecloth, I would have married a woman who sold my family to my cousin. I would never have known my brother was innocent. I would never have met my niece.”
He stepped closer, his presence commanding even in his exhaustion.
“You aren’t just the housekeeper anymore,” Roman said. “You protected my mother when no one else did.”
I looked down at the marble floor. “I just did what I thought was right.”
“Which is why I need you to stay,” he said.
Before I could answer, a sharp gasp echoed from the dining room.
Gabriel yelled, “Mom! Someone help!”
Roman pushed past me, running back into the room. I followed right behind him.
Teresa Bellini had collapsed into a chair, her hand clutching her chest. Her face was frighteningly pale, and her breathing was shallow and rapid. The adrenaline of confronting Samuel had finally worn off, leaving her frail eighty-two-year-old body unable to cope with the shock.
“Mom,” Roman said, dropping to his knees beside her. He grabbed her hand. “Call an ambulance!”
“I’m already on it,” Gabriel said, holding a phone to his ear.
Teresa looked at Roman, her eyes foggy. “The linen… Roman… don’t let them throw away the linen.”
“No one is touching it, Mom,” Roman promised, his voice cracking.
I ran to the kitchen to get her emergency nitroglycerin pills and a glass of water. My hands were shaking as I rummaged through the medical cabinet.
I found the small bottle and turned around.
In my rush, my elbow clipped a small wooden box sitting on the kitchen counter. It belonged to Teresa; she kept her tea recipes and old kitchen receipts in it.
The box crashed to the floor, spilling faded papers everywhere.
“Damn it,” I muttered, dropping to my knees to scoop them up.
As I grabbed a handful of receipts, a black-and-white photograph caught my eye. It had been wedged in the false bottom of the wooden box.
I picked it up.
It was a picture of a younger Teresa, standing in front of this very mansion. Next to her was Roman’s father, looking proud and stern in a dark suit.
But it was the man standing on the other side of Roman’s father that made the breath completely vanish from my lungs.
He was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. He was smiling, holding open the door of a vintage black town car.
It was my father.
I stared at the photograph, my mind spinning.
My father was a mechanic in a small town two hours from here. He had never mentioned the Bellini family. He had never mentioned working in the city. When I took this job eleven months ago, he just nodded and told me to work hard.
I turned the photograph over.
Written on the back in Teresa’s elegant cursive were four words:
Thomas Walsh. Our savior.
I heard the ambulance sirens growing louder outside.
I shoved the photograph into my pocket, grabbed the pills and the water, and ran back into the dining room.
The paramedics were already loading Teresa onto a stretcher. Roman and Gabriel were at her side.
“I’m riding with her,” Gabriel told the medics. He looked at Roman. “Stay here. Secure the house. Keep Mia safe.”
Roman nodded. He watched the paramedics wheel his mother out the front door.
I walked up beside him, my hand hovering over the pocket where the photograph burned against my leg.
Roman turned to me.
“Nora,” he said quietly. “Can you watch Mia tonight? Just until I get back from the hospital?”
I looked across the room. The little girl was sitting on the sofa, clutching the piece of embroidered linen, looking completely lost in the massive, ruined house.
I swallowed hard. “Of course, Mr. Bellini.”
He nodded, turning to leave.
“Mr. Bellini,” I said.
He stopped, looking back at me.
“Did your father ever have a chauffeur named Thomas?” I asked.
Roman frowned, confused by the question.
“Thomas?” Roman thought for a second. “Yes. When Gabriel and I were little. But he went to prison thirty years ago.”
May you like
My blood ran completely cold.
Roman tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”
