Chapter 2 - THE KING'S RETURN
The heavy mahogany doors of Lorenzo Moretti’s study closed with a solid, echoing thud.
The moment they shut, Mrs. Gable’s obsequious smile vanished, replaced instantly by a familiar, cruel snarl. She spun on her heel, her sharp eyes scanning the terrified line of staff.
“You heard him,” she snapped, her voice carrying through the marble foyer. “No one disturbs the master. Now, get back to work. The kitchen needs an entire inventory done before dinner service.”
Her gaze landed on Nora, who was standing near the back, leaning slightly against the wall for support. The exhausting physical labor of the past two days, combined with the crushing weight of her six-month pregnancy, had left Nora feeling dizzy and faint.
“Nora,” Mrs. Gable barked.
Nora flinched, pulling herself upright. “Yes, ma'am?”
“Since you move so slowly these days, you can handle the basement inventory,” the housekeeper sneered. “Count every bottle in the wine cellar. And when you finish, mop the floors down there. I want them spotless before tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Gable, the cellar is freezing,” a younger maid, Sarah, whispered from down the line. “And there are three flights of steep stairs. She shouldn't be carrying mop buckets down there.”
Mrs. Gable rounded on Sarah, her eyes blazing. “Did I ask for your opinion, girl?”
Sarah shrank back, terrified.
Mrs. Gable turned back to Nora, a malicious gleam in her eye. “If you’re too fragile to mop a floor, Nora, the blizzard outside won't stop me from putting you and that bastard child you’re carrying onto the street. Do you understand?”
Nora swallowed the rising panic in her throat. She thought of Lily, moving softly inside her. She thought of the freezing wind howling against the glass windows of the estate.
“I understand, Mrs. Gable,” Nora whispered, looking down at her scuffed shoes. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. Get moving.”
Nora dragged herself toward the service corridor, her lower back screaming in protest with every step. But before she descended into the freezing cellar, she needed to check on Old John.
She knew Mrs. Gable had ordered the staff to keep Lorenzo away from the east wing until the old man had been “presentable.” This meant dressing him in clean clothes for a few hours, then stripping him back down to his worn sweaters the moment Lorenzo left.
Nora filled a hot water bottle in the kitchen, hiding it beneath her oversized apron, and quietly slipped up the back stairs.
She pushed open the heavy oak door to room 4B.
The room was freezing again. The fire had burned out hours ago, and someone had pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut.
Giovanni was sitting in his rusted wheelchair, wearing a thin, scratchy hospital gown.
Nora gasped, dropping the hot water bottle onto the floor.
“Oh, John,” Nora cried softly, rushing to his side.
His skin was freezing to the touch. His lips had a faint blue tinge. The staff had stripped him down to prepare him for a bath before Lorenzo saw him, but they had clearly forgotten about him in the chaos of the master’s arrival.
Nora pulled the thick heated blanket from his bed and wrapped it tightly around his shivering shoulders. She rubbed his cold, frail hands between her own, tears of sheer fury pricking her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Nora whispered, pressing his hand against her cheek to warm it. “I’m so sorry they treat you like this.”
Giovanni couldn't move his face, but his dark, intelligent eyes locked onto hers.
He felt the warmth of her tears against his skin. He saw the deep, purple bruises blooming around her wrists.
Inside his paralyzed body, the Don was screaming.
“I have to go down to the cellar,” Nora told him gently, wiping her eyes. “But I’ll come back tonight. I promise, John. I won't leave you.”
She gently kissed his cold forehead, turned on the electric blanket, and slipped out of the room.
Two hours later, Lorenzo Moretti sat in his massive leather chair, staring at a stack of financial reports. The blizzard raged outside, completely cutting the estate off from the rest of the world.
He rubbed his temples, a headache forming behind his eyes.
He stood up, pouring himself a glass of expensive scotch. He walked to the window, watching the snow bury the pine trees.
He hated this house. He hated the memories of his father’s catastrophic stroke. But he needed to see him.
Lorenzo left his study, ignoring the nervous bows of the staff he passed in the corridors. He walked up the grand staircase and headed straight for the east wing.
When he reached room 4B, he didn't knock. He pushed the door open.
The room was warm.
The curtains were drawn back, allowing the faint gray light of the storm to illuminate the space.
Giovanni sat in his wheelchair, wrapped tightly in a thick, luxurious heated blanket.
Lorenzo frowned.
He walked over to his father, expecting the old man to look unkempt and miserable, as he usually did when Lorenzo made surprise visits.
But Giovanni’s silver hair was neatly combed. He smelled faintly of lavender soap. And resting on the small table beside him wasn't a bowl of cold, congealed oatmeal.
It was a porcelain plate containing the remnants of a perfectly roasted piece of chicken and fresh fruit.
“Mrs. Gable said they treat you like a king,” Lorenzo murmured, suspicious of the sudden improvement in his father's care. “I suppose she was telling the truth for once.”
He knelt beside the wheelchair, taking his father’s hand.
“I’m sorry I haven't been here, Papa,” Lorenzo whispered, his rough voice cracking slightly. “The families in New York are getting restless. I had to show strength.”
Giovanni didn't react. He couldn't.
But as Lorenzo held his father's hand, he noticed something strange.
Tucked into the folds of the thick heated blanket was a small, crumpled piece of paper.
Lorenzo pulled it out.
It was a receipt.
He unfolded it, reading the faded ink. It was a receipt from a cheap discount store in town, dated three months ago.
One (1) Heated Blanket - $34.99.
Lorenzo frowned, his eyes narrowing.
If the estate was providing this blanket, the receipt would be from a high-end luxury retailer, billed directly to the family accounts. Not paid in cash at a discount store.
He looked closely at the receipt. Written on the back, in neat, elegant handwriting, were two words.
For John.
Lorenzo stood up, his jaw tightening.
Who the hell was John?
May you like
Before he could process the thought, a sudden, terrifying scream echoed from deep beneath the estate.
It came from the basement.
