Chapter 4 - THE GHOST IN THE WATCH
I stared at the tiny photograph inside the gold watch lid.
It was unmistakable. The soft smile, the dark hair pulled back with a simple ribbon. It was my mother, Eleanor, taken at least thirty years ago.
My breath hitched. “How do you have this?”
Arthur’s cloudy eyes met mine. He looked exhausted, the massive effort of speaking slowly draining the little energy he had left.
“She… worked here,” Arthur whispered.
Luca frowned, looking from the watch to me.
“Your mother worked for my family?” Luca asked. “I don't remember her.”
“She left… a long time ago,” Arthur managed to say. He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. “Before you… were born.”
I shook my head, confusion crashing over me.
“My mother never talked about working in a mansion,” I said. “She was a waitress at a diner on the South Side. She raised me by herself.”
Arthur opened his eyes. He reached out and gently touched the gold watch.
“She… ran away,” Arthur breathed.
“Why?” I asked, leaning closer.
Arthur’s lips trembled. He looked at Luca.
“Because… of what… Michael’s father… did.”
The room grew instantly colder.
Carlo Bellini.
The rival mafia boss. The man who had apparently fathered Michael with Rosa Moretti before she married Arthur.
“Carlo Bellini hurt her?” Luca asked, his voice tightening.
Arthur nodded slowly.
He tried to speak again, but a harsh cough racked his frail body. He slumped back in his wheelchair, completely spent.
“He needs rest,” I said instinctively, my training as a caregiver kicking in despite my shock. I gently wiped his mouth with a clean napkin. “He’s pushed himself too far tonight.”
Luca stood up, his jaw set in a hard line.
“Take him to the master suite on the first floor,” Luca ordered softly. “I don't want him back in that west wing ever again.”
“Yes, sir.”
I unlocked the brakes on the wheelchair and began pushing Arthur toward the grand hallway.
As we reached the doorway, Luca called out.
“Nora.”
I stopped and looked back.
“I’m going to find out what happened to your mother,” Luca said, his dark eyes promising absolute retribution. “Nobody hurts the people under my roof.”
I nodded slowly, gripping the handles of the wheelchair.
I settled Arthur into the massive master suite. The bed was wide and comfortable, a far cry from the narrow cot he’d been forced to sleep on in the west wing.
I helped him out of his cardigan and tucked the thick duvet around him.
He fell asleep almost instantly, his breathing finally evening out.
I stood by the window for a long time, watching the rain hammer against the glass.
My mother had never talked about her past. She always said it was better to leave old ghosts buried. When she died of cancer three years ago, I thought her secrets had died with her.
But now, standing in the house of a mafia boss, pregnant and alone, I realized the past wasn't buried at all. It was just waiting for the right moment to speak.
I walked quietly to the door, turning off the bedside lamp.
Just before I stepped into the hallway, I noticed something resting on the small nightstand near the door.
It was a thick, leather-bound book.
I hadn't seen it when we came in.
I picked it up. It looked like an old ledger, the kind used for accounting. But it wasn't dusty. It looked like someone had been reading it recently.
I opened the cover.
Inside, there were no numbers or financial records.
The pages were filled with neat, cursive handwriting.
The handwriting was Michael’s.
It was a journal.
I flipped to the most recent entry, dated three days ago.
Vanessa thinks she’s so smart, the entry read. She thinks marrying Luca will secure her father’s legacy. She doesn't know Carlo Bellini has been dead for two years.
I gasped, dropping the book onto the nightstand.
Carlo Bellini was dead?
If Carlo was dead… who was Michael working for?
Suddenly, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
I screamed into the gloved palm, kicking out violently.
The person dragged me backward into the dark hallway, their grip like iron.
“Don't fight me, Nora,” a woman’s voice whispered harshly in my ear.
It was the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable.
The woman who had told me Arthur was a vegetable. The woman who had ordered me to keep him in the west wing.
May you like
“You really shouldn't go digging in other people’s diaries,” Mrs. Gable hissed, pressing a cold, metallic object against my spine. A gun.
“Walk,” she ordered.
