Chapter 5 - The Girl Who Lied for Her MotherThe guard returned alone.
My knees almost gave out from relief.
Vincent’s smile did not move, but his eyes sharpened.
“Well?” he asked.
The guard shifted. “The child is not in the servants’ wing.”
A murmur ran through the dining room.
I made myself look confused.
Not afraid.
Confused.
That was harder.
“What?” I whispered.
Vincent watched me the way a knife watches skin.
“Where is your daughter, Sophia?”
I let panic rise because panic was useful when it was real.
“She was in bed. Maria saw me bring her soup earlier.”
Maria stiffened beside me.
She had seen no such thing.
But Maria had worked in the Duca estate longer than I had. She understood lies told for survival.
“Yes,” Maria said quickly. “I did. The little one had a fever.”
Vincent’s gaze slid to her.
Maria lowered her eyes.
“A fever,” Vincent repeated.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He stood again.
Salvatore Greco remained beside the chair, silent and amused.
Vincent descended on us slowly. “That is strange.”
I said nothing.
“Because one of my men saw a little girl near the pantry not long ago.”
My mouth went dry.
“A child can wander when she is feverish,” Maria said.
Vincent turned to her.
The room chilled.
Maria realized too late that she had spoken without being asked.
Vincent smiled. “How maternal of you.”
I stepped forward. “Please, sir. Emma gets scared when strangers look for her. Let me find her.”
“That is exactly what I intend.”
He snapped his fingers.
Two guards moved toward me.
The black device in my pocket felt like a coal burning against my thigh.
Press twice if you need us.
But if Marco stormed this room now, with all the staff present, with Greco standing there, with Vincent’s men armed along every wall, people would die. Not criminals. Not traitors. Cooks. maids. gardeners. Drivers.
People who had spent years pretending not to see things because they had families.
Vincent wanted me to panic.
So I did the only thing I could.
I lowered myself to the floor.
Every person in the room froze.
I knelt in front of Vincent Romano.
Not in worship.
In performance.
“Please,” I said, letting my voice break. “She is three. She hides when she is frightened. If strange men search for her, she will crawl somewhere dangerous. Let me call for her. Please.”
Vincent stared down at me.
The humiliation burned. I felt every eye on my bowed head. I thought of Emma watching Lorenzo tied to the chair and refusing to leave him.
Be brave later, I told myself.
Survive now.
Vincent crouched slowly until we were face to face.
“There she is,” he murmured. “The quiet little maid.”
His hand touched my chin.
I forced myself not to flinch.
“You should have stayed quiet, Sophia.”
“I don’t understand.”
He smiled. “You will.”
Then the dining room doors opened.
A tiny voice said, “Mama?”
I turned so fast I nearly fell.
Emma stood in the doorway.
Alone.
No Rosa.
No Biscotti.
No Marco.
Her red dress had been changed. She wore a pale blue nightgown and one of Rosa’s oversized cardigans that dragged almost to her knees. Her hair had been brushed. Her face washed clean.
But her eyes found mine.
And in them, I saw Rosa’s plan.
My daughter had been sent upstairs.
On purpose.
Vincent straightened.
“Well,” he said softly. “There you are.”
Emma looked at him.
Then at me kneeling on the floor.
Her little face changed.
“Mama fall?”
“No, baby.” I stood carefully. “I’m all right.”
Vincent extended one hand. “Come here, Emma.”
She did not move.
A dangerous silence filled the dining room.
Children can sense monsters. They do not always know the word, but they know the temperature of a room. They know when adults are smiling with their teeth and not their hearts.
Emma stepped behind the doorframe.
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
Emma nodded.
“Good. Then come here.”
She shook her head.
A few servants looked down quickly to hide their expressions.
Vincent saw.
His face flushed.
Before he could speak, Salvatore Greco laughed quietly.
It was the first sound he had made.
“Your empire resists you, Romano,” he said, “beginning with toddlers.”
Vincent’s eyes flashed.
That laugh saved us and endangered us at the same time.
He could not drag Emma across the dining room after Greco mocked him. It would make him look small.
So he softened his face.
“Emma,” he said, “I need to ask you something important.”
She clutched the cardigan closed.
Vincent pointed toward me. “Did your mother take you into the cellar tonight?”
My heart stopped.
Emma looked at me.
I did not shake my head.
I did not signal.
I did nothing.
Because Vincent was watching.
Emma’s lower lip trembled.
Then she said, “Biscotti did.”
A ripple moved through the staff.
Vincent blinked. “What?”
“Biscotti went in pantry. Emma followed.”
Vincent’s smile froze.
“What did you see there?”
Emma looked down at her bare feet.
“Wine.”
“Anything else?”
“Dust.”
“What else?”
She sniffled. “A spider.”
Someone near the back coughed to cover a nervous laugh.
Vincent stepped toward her.
Emma retreated one small step.
I moved without thinking.
Vincent raised one finger at me.
“Do not.”
I stopped.
My whole body screamed to reach her.
Vincent crouched again, this time before Emma.
His voice went syrupy. “Did you see Uncle Lorenzo?”
Emma looked at him.
The entire room waited.
My daughter’s eyes filled with tears.
Then she whispered, “Uncle Lorenzo went away.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
He believed her.
Because that was what he had told her earlier.
Children repeated what adults said. Everyone knew that.
Vincent smiled gently. “Yes. He did.”
Emma nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Everybody has to listen now.”
The words struck the room.
Vincent’s smile faltered.
He had told her that too.
And now every servant in the dining room heard it.
Not from me.
Not from Marco.
From a three-year-old child.
Salvatore Greco’s eyes narrowed with interest.
Vincent rose.
“Take the child upstairs,” he said.
“No,” I said.
The word came too fast.
Vincent turned.
I lowered my voice. “Please. She’s sick. Let me take her.”
He watched me for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
“Of course.”
I crossed the room and picked Emma up. Her arms wrapped around my neck. Her tiny mouth pressed to my ear.
“Mama,” she breathed so softly no one else could hear. “Rosa says duck room.”
Duck room.
Laundry.
The old yellow laundry room had wallpaper with faded ducks. No one used it anymore except for storing torn linens.
A dirty place.
A place men would not search first.
I kissed Emma’s cheek.
Vincent’s eyes followed us as I carried her toward the doors.
Just before I left, he called, “Sophia.”
I stopped.
He lifted a wineglass from Lorenzo’s table.
“I will find what was taken.”
I held his gaze.
Then Emma raised her small head from my shoulder and said, clear enough for the room to hear:
“Maybe Biscotti took it.”
For one second, silence.
Then someone in the staff line made the mistake of laughing.
Vincent hurled the wineglass across the room.
It shattered against the wall.
Emma buried her face in my neck.
And I understood something important.
May you like
Vincent Romano could frighten adults.
But a child had just made him lose control in front of everyone.
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