Chapter 5 - Soft Linens, Heavy Guilt
When Charlotte woke, the blinding morning sun was filtering through sheer cream-colored drapes, casting warm ribbons of gold across a room she did not recognize.
She wasn't in her cramped, drafty attic bedroom above the garage where the junior maids slept. She wasn't even in Vincent’s study.
She was lying in an enormous king-sized four-poster bed made of carved mahogany. The sheets beneath her skin were silk—heavy, impossibly soft, smelling faintly of lavender and Vincent’s signature sandalwood cologne. Her broken arm was propped up securely on an angled bolster, encased in crisp white fiberglass from her knuckles to just below her elbow.
Beside the bed sat Rosa.
The head housekeeper was sitting stiffly on a gilded Louis XIV chair, holding a silver tray with a cup of chamomile tea and a bowl of sliced peaches. Rosa’s usually pinched, severe face was entirely drained of color. Her hands, resting on the tray, were trembling.
“Rosa?” Charlotte croaked, her throat dry as sand.
Rosa practically jumped. “Charlotte! God in heaven, you're awake.”
“Where... where am I?” Charlotte tried to sit up, but her plush body felt weighed down by lead.
“You are in Don Vincent’s private suite,” Rosa whispered, leaning in as if the walls themselves had ears. “The master bedroom. In forty years of serving the DeAgostino family, no servant has ever set foot past this threshold, let alone slept in his bed. Charlotte... what in the Virgin’s name happened last night?”
Charlotte looked down at the silk duvet, shame burning hot in her chest. “I... my father's debt. Some men attacked me in Queens.”
Rosa stared at her with a mixture of terror and awe. “Those men won’t be attacking anyone ever again.”
Charlotte’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
Rosa set the tray on the nightstand, her hands shaking so badly the porcelain clinked. “Luca came back at four in the morning. The radio in the kitchen has been buzzing with news all dawn. Sullivan’s auto shop in Sunnyside caught fire last night. Gas explosion, the police are saying. Ten bodies found inside. Burned beyond recognition.”
Ten bodies.
Charlotte buried her face in her right hand. The sheer scale of the violence orchestrated on her behalf made her head spin. Ten men. Ten lives snuffed out in a matter of hours because a clumsy, heavy maid couldn't hide her broken arm while pouring wine.
“He did that?” Charlotte breathed.
“Don Vincent does not tolerate anyone touching his household,” Rosa said, her voice dropping into a solemn hush. “But this wasn't about the household, Charlotte. When he carried you up here last night—himself, in his own arms—he looked at me and said if anyone disturbed your sleep, he would have their tongue cut out. He ordered me to bring you fresh fruit and tea every two hours.”
The bedroom door pushed open without a knock.
Rosa scrambled to her feet, dropping into a deep, subservient curtsy, keeping her head low.
Vincent stepped into the room.
He was freshly shaved, wearing a tailored navy suit and an open-collared white shirt. But beneath his cool, aristocratic exterior, Charlotte saw the dark circles under his slate eyes, the exhaustion of a predator who had spent the night hunting.
And on the pristine white cuff of his right wrist, partially concealed beneath the tailored sleeve, Charlotte caught a glimpse of a faint, rusty red speck.
Dried blood.
“Leave us, Rosa,” Vincent commanded softly.
May you like
“Yes, Don Vincent,” Rosa whispered, backing out of the room with frantic haste and pulling the heavy door closed behind her.
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