Chapter 2 - The Wrong Kind of Mercy
“No, you don’t.”
The words came out quieter than I intended.
But they landed.
Lorenzo Duca had a reputation for making men confess with a glance. I had watched senators leave his office sweating through tailored suits. I had seen armed men lower their eyes when he entered a room.
Still, he did not interrupt me.
So I kept going.
“Isabella takes digoxin,” I said. “Emma takes propranolol. Different medication. Different dosage. Different purpose. If Emma swallowed Isabella’s pills, it could hurt her. If Isabella missed hers, it could hurt her too.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“Then why would anyone put them in Emma’s bag?”
I looked at the door Vivien had just walked through.
“You tell me.”
For one second, his gray eyes became ice.
Then Vincent returned without knocking.
“Boss. The housekeeper says she saw Sophia near the east staircase last night.”
My stomach dropped.
“I was near the east staircase,” I said. “Because I was carrying laundry.”
Vincent nodded once, as if I had confirmed something important.
“And did you enter Isabella’s floor?”
“No.”
“Sophia—”
“No.” I stood, keeping Emma against my shoulder. “You do not get to say my name like you are already writing my confession.”
Vincent’s face remained unreadable. “Four bottles were found in your daughter’s backpack.”
“Planted.”
“You have proof?”
“Do you?”
The room fell silent again.
Emma pressed her face into my neck. I could feel every small breath against my skin. Too shallow. Too fast.
Lorenzo looked at her, then at Vincent.
“Call Dr. Patel,” he said. “Have him come here and examine both girls.”
Vincent hesitated.
“Boss, Isabella’s physician is in Manhattan.”
“Then wake him up.”
“And Sophia?”
Lorenzo’s eyes shifted back to me.
“She and Emma remain in the blue sitting room until this is resolved.”
My laugh came out bitter. “So we are prisoners.”
“No.” His voice was low. “You are under protection.”
“From who?”
He did not answer.
That scared me more than anything.
The blue sitting room was on the first floor, across from Lorenzo’s study. It was larger than the entire apartment Emma and I had lived in before I took the job at the Duca estate. Blue velvet furniture. Gold-framed paintings. A fireplace tall enough to stand inside.
Emma sat curled beside me on the couch, clutching her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Moon.
I had not brought him.
Someone had gone into our room, searched it, and carried him out.
That small fact made my hands shake.
A maid brought us tea. I did not touch it.
Neither did Emma.
An hour passed.
Then two.
No one spoke to us except Vincent, who stood outside the room like a statue with a gun beneath his jacket.
At ten-thirty, Isabella appeared in the doorway.
She wore pink pajamas and had one sock on.
Her chestnut curls were a mess.
“Where’s Emma?” she asked.
Emma looked up.
“Bella.”
Isabella ran toward us, but Vincent stepped between her and the couch.
“Not now, sweetheart.”
Isabella stared at him.
“Why?”
“Your father needs you upstairs.”
“But Emma promised to show me how to make bunny ears with toast.”
Vincent glanced toward me, almost apologetic.
Almost.
Then Vivien came down the hallway.
She had changed clothes.
Cream sweater. White trousers. Her engagement ring caught the light as she reached for Isabella’s hand.
“Come on, darling.”
Isabella pulled away.
“I want Emma.”
Vivien’s smile stayed perfect.
“Emma is resting.”
“She’s not sick.”
“No,” Vivien said softly. “But sometimes people make mistakes.”
Emma’s fingers tightened around Mr. Moon.
“No mistake,” she whispered.
Vivien looked at her.
The smile never left her face.
But something changed behind it.
Something dark and pleased.
I stood so fast the tea table rattled.
“Do not talk to her like that.”
Vincent moved closer.
Vivien raised a calming hand. “Sophia, you are emotional.”
“You just implied my daughter did something wrong.”
“I implied nothing.”
“You know exactly what you did.”
Lorenzo’s voice cut through the room.
“What did she do?”
He stood at the end of the hallway, still in the same white shirt, but now wearing a black jacket over it. His expression was unreadable.
Vivien turned to him, eyes wide with wounded innocence.
“Nothing, Lorenzo. Sophia is frightened. I understand.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
Lorenzo looked between us.
“Speak carefully,” he told me.
There it was.
The warning.
Not to Vivien.
To me.
My mouth went dry.
Vivien’s face softened, as though she pitied me.
“I was only trying to reassure Isabella,” she said. “She is frightened. Her medicine disappeared, Lorenzo.”
“You said Emma made a mistake,” Isabella suddenly said.
Vivien froze.
It was barely visible.
But I saw it.
So did Lorenzo.
Isabella looked at her father.
“You said Emma took my bottles because her mommy needs money.”
A sharp silence filled the hallway.
Vivien crouched before Isabella.
“Sweetheart, that is not what I said.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, darling. You misunderstood.”
“I didn’t.”
Lorenzo’s gaze slowly turned toward Vivien.
For the first time that morning, she looked afraid.
Then Vincent’s phone rang.
He checked the screen, and the color drained from his face.
“Boss,” he said. “Dr. Patel’s office called.”
Lorenzo’s eyes stayed on Vivien.
“What?”
“Isabella’s medication cabinet was opened at 2:14 a.m.”
I stopped breathing.
Vincent continued.
“The security system logged a keycard entry.”
“Whose keycard?” Lorenzo asked.
Vincent stared at the screen.
Then he looked at me.
“Sophia’s.”
Emma began to cry.
And this time, Lorenzo did not look at Vivien.
May you like
He looked at me as if he no longer knew who I was.
---
