Chapter 3 - The Summons
Downstairs in the staff wing, the morning air was thick with the scent of roasted chicory and brewing Earl Grey. I was standing by the marble counter, carefully pouring boiling water into a silver pot, when the kitchen door swung open with a soft, ominous click.
Isabella stood on the threshold.
Her silver hair was pulled back into a severe, immaculate bun that seemed to pull the skin of her face taut. Her dark eyes scanned the kitchen before fixing entirely on me.
“A word, Clara,” she said.
My stomach plummeted, dropping like a lead weight straight to the floorboards. Every drop of blood rushed from my head, leaving a cold ringing in my ears. I set the silver pot down so hard that the liquid sloshed over the rim.
“Isabella, I—is everything all right?” I stammered, wiping my hands frantically on my apron.
“Follow me,” she commanded, turning on her heel without waiting for an answer.
I trailed behind her like a condemned prisoner walking toward the gallows. We moved away from the bustling warmth of the kitchens and down a narrow corridor lined with dark wood paneling, leading directly into Isabella’s private office. The room smelled heavily of cedarwood, old paper, and expensive leather.
Isabella stepped inside, walked around a massive mahogany desk, and turned to face me. The tiny, metallic click of the door locking behind us sounded as deafening as a gunshot in the confined space.
“Your daughter went upstairs yesterday,” Isabella said.
The words weren't phrased as a question. They were a verdict.
My knees felt weak, threatening to buckle beneath me. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, tears instantly pricking the corners of my eyes. “I was only turning around for a second to sort the linens, she wanders off sometimes, she’s only three, she doesn't understand boundaries, please don’t fire us, I have nowhere else to go, I swear she didn't touch anything—!”
“Quiet, Clara,” Isabella cut in, her voice slicing through my panic with surgical precision.
I clamped my mouth shut, trembling so violently I had to grab the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing.
Isabella didn't yell. She didn't raise her fist. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her knuckles on the polished wood, her eyes searching my face with a terrifying intensity.
“Do you have any idea what is behind that door on the second floor?” she asked softly.
“The... the medical wing,” I whispered. “Off limits.”
“Lorenzo Moretti lies in that room,” Isabella said, her voice dropping an octave. “Unconscious. Broken. The doctors from Manhattan’s finest hospitals have come and gone, shaking their heads, whispering that he may never open his eyes again. His brother, Marco, is already circling the estate like a wolf, preparing to carve up the empire the moment the death certificate is signed.”
She paused, letting the heavy, suffocating weight of the mafia's internal politics settle over the room.
“And yesterday afternoon,” Isabella continued, her gaze locking onto mine with hypnotic force, “your three-year-old daughter waltzed into that room, climbed onto a chair, held his hand, and sang him a lullaby.”
I gasped, my hand flying up to cover my mouth. “She... she went in there? Oh God, I am so sorry, I swear she didn't mean—is he okay? Did she hurt him?”
“Hurt him?” Isabella let out a dry, humorless sound that resembled a scoff. “Clara, for forty-nine nights, that man’s heart flatlined against every medical intervention we threw at him. But yesterday, the second your daughter’s voice filled that room, his heart rate spiked. His neurological telemetry went wild. The nurses have the logs.”
I stared at her, completely paralyzed. The fear in my chest didn't vanish; it twisted into something entirely different—something sharp, confusing, and terrifyingly complex.
“I don't understand,” I whispered.
“Neither do I,” Isabella said, straightening up and walking slowly around the desk until she was standing just inches from me. “Which is why you are not being thrown out onto the street this instant. But understand this, Clara: Marco Moretti cannot find out about this. If my employers—or worse, Marco—discover that an outsider’s child breached high-level security and triggered a physiological response in Lorenzo, they will view it as a vulnerability. In our world, vulnerabilities are erased.”
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She reached out, her cool fingers lightly grasping my trembling shoulder.
“Your daughter is medicine we didn't ask for,” Isabella whispered fiercely. “And starting tonight, you are going to help us keep him alive.”
