Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO WOULDN’T WAKE
Alessandro did not threaten Francesca.
That surprised her.
It surprised him too.
Twenty years earlier, a woman backing away from him with that much fear in her face might have received a very different response.
Instead he took out his phone.
“Call Dr. Caruso.”
Francesca blinked.
“Our family doctor?”
“Now.”
Then Alessandro carried Emma out.
She was light enough that it disturbed him.
The cottage stood beyond a neglected rose garden, perhaps seventy yards from the mansion.
Alessandro had passed it hundreds of times.
He could not remember the last time he had entered.
Emma pointed.
“Mama's door.”
It was unlocked.
Sophia Rossi lay on a narrow bed still wearing her work uniform.
Alessandro stopped in the doorway.
She was breathing.
Too quickly.
Her face was flushed, her hair damp with sweat, and an untouched glass of water stood on the nightstand.
Emma wriggled from Alessandro's arms.
“Mama.”
He caught her gently.
“Wait.”
There were moments when old training mattered.
Not combat.
Observation.
Sophia's skin was hot.
Her breathing looked labored.
A half-empty box of cold medicine sat beside the bed.
Alessandro called 911 himself.
Francesca reached the cottage several minutes later.
She remained outside.
He noticed that too.
Paramedics arrived before the family physician.
They gave Sophia oxygen, started fluids, and moved quickly once they saw her vital signs.
One of them asked:
“How long has she been like this?”
Alessandro looked toward Francesca.
She said, “Maybe yesterday.”
Emma shook her head.
The paramedic noticed.
“How long, sweetheart?”
Emma held up three fingers.
Nobody knew whether she meant hours or days.
At the hospital, doctors diagnosed severe pneumonia complicated by dehydration and systemic infection. Sophia had not been poisoned. She had not been struck.
There was no dramatic criminal explanation.
She had become dangerously ill.
And somebody had allowed illness to become danger.
The emergency physician told Alessandro that another substantial delay could have changed the outcome.
Emma fell asleep in a waiting-room chair with a blanket around her shoulders.
Alessandro sat across from her.
His jacket still bore the outline of two wet handprints.
He stared at them.
Francesca appeared at the end of the corridor.
“I should go back to the house.”
“No.”
She stopped.
“I need to manage dinner staff.”
“No one is serving dinner.”
“Mr. Moretti—”
“When did you last see Sophia conscious?”
Francesca looked toward Emma.
“Yesterday morning.”
“You were at the cottage today.”
“I checked on her.”
“Why didn't you call an ambulance?”
“She told me before that hospitals are expensive.”
“Sophia has health insurance.”
Francesca hesitated.
That was new information to somebody.
Alessandro felt the first small crack in his understanding of his own household.
He paid well.
He provided insurance.
Housing.
Bonuses.
That was what his accountants told him.
He had never asked whether workers knew those things existed.
“What did you tell Emma?”
“Nothing.”
“She thinks her mother loses their home if she misses work.”
“Children misunderstand.”
“Children repeat.”
Francesca looked offended now.
“After eleven years, you're taking the word of a toddler over mine?”
Alessandro thought about it.
“For tonight?”
He looked at Emma.
“Yes.”
Francesca's face tightened.
Then Sophia moved weakly behind the glass doors of the treatment room.
Her eyes opened.
A nurse called Alessandro in because Emma's name had appeared on the emergency-contact sheet, followed by his household office.
Sophia recognized him.
Confusion came first.
Then fear.
Not relief.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“You're safe.”
Her fingers moved weakly against the blanket.
“Emma?”
“She's here.”
Sophia closed her eyes.
For several seconds he thought she had fallen asleep again.
Then she whispered:
“The envelope.”
“What envelope?”
Her eyes opened.
This time the fear was sharper.
“Did she take it?”
May you like
Alessandro looked through the glass wall.
Francesca was gone.
