Chương 4
“You ordered Sophia to remove the stain.”
“It was her assignment.”
“She has pneumonia.”
“I did not know the severity.”
“She missed work.”
“She sent messages saying she would return.”
“And you believed her?”
Bianca folded the paper once. “Mrs. Rossi has missed eleven days in the last three months. The spring reception is tomorrow. Forty guests will sleep here. If laundry is not completed, the entire household suffers.”
“A child was standing in this basin.”
“Mrs. Rossi should not have allowed that.”
“She didn’t.”
Bianca’s mouth tightened. “Then I fail to see how I am responsible for a child disobeying her mother.”
Luca shifted his weight against the doorway. Alessandro knew the movement. It meant he disliked what he was hearing but had not decided whether speaking would improve it.
“Giulia says wages are deducted for illness,” Alessandro said.
“Wages are adjusted for hours not worked.”
“People live here because they have nowhere else to go.”
“Many employers would charge rent.”
“Do we?”
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
Bianca glanced at Luca, perhaps expecting rescue. None came.
“Cottage maintenance is deducted proportionally.”
“From Sophia’s wages?”
“From all resident staff.”
“Did I approve this?”
“It is contained in the annual household budget.”
Alessandro pictured the folders beside his coffee, the pages he signed while reading market reports on his tablet.
“How much did Sophia earn last month?”
“I would have to check.”
“Check.”
Bianca did not move.
“Now.”
She left.
Luca waited until her footsteps faded.
“You’re frightening the staff.”
“They should have been frightened sooner.”
“Of you?”
Alessandro looked at the shirt.
“Yes.”
Luca entered the room and righted the stool with his shoe. One leg was shorter than the others. It rocked on the stone floor.
“There’s something else,” he said.
“What?”
“Bianca says Sophia requested access to the west archive three weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“She claimed she was inventorying old linens.”
“The west archive has no linens.”
“No. It has your father’s personal records.”
Alessandro turned.
“Who approved her access?”
“Vittorio.”
The Moretti family gathered for dinner at eight whether hungry or not. It was one of the rituals Alessandro’s father had imposed and death had failed to cancel.
That evening only three places were set in the formal dining room: Alessandro’s, Vittorio’s, and that of Elena Moretti, Alessandro’s widowed aunt. The spring reception had brought most relatives to Milan, but flight delays had postponed their arrival until morning.
Vittorio sat at the far end of the table, seventy-one and still upright, his white hair combed back from a face that had once seemed carved from oak. The black onyx ring rested beside his wineglass.
Elena complained about the chilled soup.
“The kitchen is distracted,” she said. “Half the staff is whispering about an ambulance.”
“No ambulance came,” Alessandro said.
“A car, then. You carried a maid through the garden.”
“Sophia Rossi.”
“I don’t memorize their surnames.”
Vittorio lifted his wine. “How ill is she?”
“Pneumonia.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Someone visited her cottage.”
Vittorio drank.
Elena sighed at the soup again. “Can we not discuss staff illness at dinner?”
Alessandro looked at his uncle’s hands. “The visitor wore a family ring.”
Elena’s spoon stopped.
Vittorio set down his glass. “Many men in our extended circle wear the crest.”
“That is what Luca said.”
“A sensible observation.”
“Did you visit Sophia?”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation. Vittorio had always said hesitation was where a lie put on its coat.
“Did you authorize her access to the west archive?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She asked.”
“You refuse requests as a hobby.”
Vittorio smiled faintly. “She said old bedding had been stored there after the north wing renovation. I saw no danger in allowing a housekeeper to count sheets.”
“There are no sheets in that archive.”
“Then she was mistaken.”
“Or lying.”
“Perhaps.”
Elena pushed her bowl away. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’m asking questions.”
“At dinner?”
Alessandro ignored her. “What did Sophia’s mother leave her?”
Vittorio’s expression did not change, but his thumb moved once across the face of the onyx ring.
“I have no idea.”
“Her mother worked here.”
“Many people worked here.”
“Teresa Rossi.”
Vittorio looked toward the tall windows. Darkness had turned the glass into mirrors.
“I remember Teresa.”
“How?”
“She assisted your mother.”
The room seemed to contract.
Elena picked up her wine, then set it down without drinking.
“What kind of assistance?” Alessandro asked.
“She was a seamstress. A laundress. Whatever women did in that wing.”
“You remember her after twenty-seven years, but not what she did?”
“She was present during an unpleasant period.”
“My mother’s murder.”
Elena whispered his name.
Vittorio’s gaze sharpened. “We agreed years ago that discussing Maria at this table served no one.”
“We agreed because I was sixteen and you told me grief made men weak.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
“Did Teresa know who killed her?”
The silence that followed was small, almost ordinary. A servant entered with grilled sea bass, sensed the room, and hesitated.
Elena waved him forward. “Put it down.”
The servant set out the plates. Alessandro recognized him as Matteo, one of the weekend waiters, though he had never learned the young man’s surname.
Vittorio waited until the door closed.
“Your mother was killed by men working for Corrado Lanza,” he said. “You have known this since the night it happened.”
“I knew what you told me.”
“I showed you the police report.”
“You showed me selected pages.”
Vittorio leaned back. “What has a sick housekeeper said to you?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Then why are you dragging bones onto the dinner table?”
“Because her daughter sang my mother’s lullaby.”
Elena’s hand moved to her throat.
Vittorio’s face remained still.
Alessandro watched him more carefully than he had ever watched an enemy.
“You know the song,” Alessandro said.
“I knew your mother.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No. I do not know which song a child sang in a laundry room.”
Elena stood abruptly. Her chair scraped the floor.
May you like
“I have a headache.”
“Aunt Elena,” Alessandro said.
