Chapter 2 - THE GOLDEN CLOCK
“You smell like coffee.”
Lorenzo Duca looked down at the little girl in his arms.
For one completely unreasonable second, the most feared man in the house almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the great doors opened.
And everything inside him went cold again.
The hall was crowded.
Servants stood along the marble wall. Two members of security were near the staircase. His uncle Vittorio waited beside the fireplace with a glass of bourbon. Across the room stood Bianca Valenti, the woman whose family expected Lorenzo to marry her before winter.
And in the center of them all stood Ranata.
Her wrists were not bound, but two guards had positioned themselves close enough to make the message clear.
She was going nowhere.
Ranata wore the gray uniform of the household staff. Her dark hair had loosened from its bun. Tears had dried along one cheek.
Then she saw the child in Lorenzo's arms.
Her face went white.
“Mila.”
The little girl lifted her head.
“Mommy!”
She twisted toward Ranata so fast Lorenzo tightened his hold instinctively.
Ranata started forward.
One guard reached for her arm.
“Don't.”
Lorenzo didn't raise his voice.
The guard froze.
Lorenzo crossed the hall and placed Mila into her mother's arms.
Ranata crushed the child against her chest.
“Oh, God. Mila, where were you?”
“Behind the cans.”
Ranata closed her eyes.
“You were supposed to stay in the laundry room.”
“They said they were taking you away.”
Ranata's face changed.
Lorenzo noticed.
Fear.
Not surprise.
She already knew.
He turned toward the room.
“Who accused her?”
Bianca answered first.
“We found the clock in her locker.”
Her voice was smooth. Controlled.
Bianca was thirty-one, elegant, educated in Switzerland, and raised in a family that had spent three generations learning how to make threats sound like business proposals.
She wore red leather gloves.
Lorenzo's eyes dropped to them.
Mila's tiny fingers tightened around Ranata's collar.
Lorenzo looked back at the child.
“Little one.”
Ranata immediately stiffened.
Lorenzo ignored everyone else.
“You told me someone hid the clock.”
Mila nodded.
“Do you remember what that person was wearing?”
Ranata whispered, “Mr. Duca, she's three.”
“I know.”
His voice stayed gentle.
Mila looked across the room.
Her eyes passed over the guards.
The servants.
Vittorio.
Then stopped.
She pointed.
“Red hands.”
Silence hit the room.
Bianca's expression did not change.
But Vittorio's glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
Bianca gave a small laugh.
“I was wearing these all afternoon. Half the staff saw me.”
Lorenzo walked toward her.
Pino moved beside him.
The Doberman's nails clicked against the marble.
Bianca glanced at the dog.
“You're taking the word of a toddler over mine?”
“No.”
Lorenzo stopped three feet away.
“I'm taking nothing yet.”
He looked toward his security chief.
“Marco. Bring the clock.”
Marco disappeared down the west corridor.
Ranata held Mila so tightly the child squeaked.
“Mommy.”
“Sorry, baby.”
Lorenzo turned toward Ranata.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Eight months.”
“Have you ever entered my mother's study?”
“No.”
“Touched anything belonging to the Duca family?”
“No.”
Bianca crossed her arms.
“The clock was found inside her locker beneath her coat.”
Lorenzo looked at her.
“You were present when it was found?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Careful, Lorenzo.”
That tone would have frightened most men.
It only irritated him.
Marco returned carrying a small evidence bag.
Inside was the clock.
Eighteen-karat gold.
Diamond markers.
An antique face no larger than Lorenzo's palm.
It had belonged to his mother.
She used to keep it beside her bed.
After her death, Lorenzo moved it into a locked cabinet in the private library.
Very few people knew it existed.
Even fewer knew where it was kept.
Lorenzo held out his hand.
Marco gave him the bag.
“When was it taken?”
“We don't know.”
“Cabinet damaged?”
“No.”
“Lock?”
“Untouched.”
Bianca sighed.
“This is becoming absurd. The maid stole it. Children lie to protect their mothers.”
Mila buried her face against Ranata.
Pino growled.
Quietly.
Bianca took one step back.
Lorenzo turned his attention to the clock.
Something was wrong.
Not with the face.
With the weight.
He removed it from the bag.
His father had given the clock to his mother on their tenth anniversary.
Lorenzo had held it many times as a boy.
It was heavier now.
He turned it over.
A tiny scratch ran along the bottom seam.
Fresh.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Get me a screwdriver.”
Vittorio laughed.
“You're dismantling an heirloom because a child told you a fairy tale?”
Lorenzo looked at him.
“You seem nervous.”
“I'm bored.”
“Then leave.”
Vittorio's smile vanished.
Nobody dismissed Vittorio Duca from a room.
Not even family.
Especially not family.
But he stayed.
Marco returned with a small tool kit.
Lorenzo carried the clock to the long dining table.
Everyone watched as he removed four tiny screws.
The base loosened.
Something fell onto the polished wood.
Not gold.
Not machinery.
A black memory card.
Smaller than a fingernail.
Marco leaned closer.
“What is that?”
Lorenzo didn't answer.
Bianca did.
“What does it matter? It could have been there for years.”
Lorenzo picked up the card.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because this clock hasn't worked since 2009.”
He looked at the underside.
“And someone repaired the mechanism recently.”
Ranata made a sound.
Barely audible.
Lorenzo turned.
She had gone pale.
“What?”
Ranata shook her head.
“Nothing.”
He approached her.
“You recognized something.”
“No.”
“Ranata.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
There was something in them now beyond fear.
Recognition.
Grief.
“My husband,” she whispered.
Bianca stiffened.
Lorenzo noticed.
“Your husband?”
Ranata swallowed.
“He repaired clocks.”
Lorenzo said nothing.
“He died two years ago.”
“What was his name?”
“Matteo Russo.”
Marco suddenly looked at Lorenzo.
Lorenzo remembered the name.
Not immediately.
Then it came back.
Matteo Russo.
A quiet man who had occasionally serviced antique watches for Duca properties.
More importantly, Matteo had once worked as a technical contractor for Lorenzo's father.
Two years earlier, Matteo had died when his car went off a coastal road during a storm.
Accident.
At least that was what Lorenzo had been told.
Ranata looked at the memory card.
“I've seen that kind before.”
Lorenzo's pulse slowed.
“Where?”
“In Matteo's workshop.”
Bianca stepped forward.
“This proves nothing.”
Ranata looked at her.
For the first time, anger replaced fear.
“No.”
Her voice shook.
“But this does.”
She shifted Mila onto one hip and reached into the pocket of her uniform.
From it, she pulled a folded piece of paper.
Old.
Worn.
Creased so many times it looked ready to fall apart.
“I found this in Matteo's things after he died.”
Lorenzo took it.
There were only six handwritten words.
IF THE CLOCK RETURNS, TRUST NO DUCA.
Vittorio's glass slipped from his fingers.
It shattered across the marble floor.
Everyone turned toward him.
Vittorio looked down.
Then smiled.
“Clumsy.”
Lorenzo stared at his uncle.
But Mila was staring at someone else.
Bianca.
And quietly, almost too softly to hear, the child whispered:
“She was with the man who put it there.”
Lorenzo looked down at her.
“What man?”
Mila lifted one tiny hand.
May you like
And pointed directly at Vittorio Duca.
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