Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
Lorenzo stared at me as if he were seeing a ghost. The hard edges of his silhouette seemed to dissolve under the harsh nursery light. He sank slowly into the armchair beside Sophia’s bed, his broad shoulders slumping forward.
“Juliana never told me about that night,” he murmured, his voice heavy with grief. “She told me she patched up people on the streets during her residency, but she never mentioned... anyone specific.”
“She saved my life,” I said softly, crouching down so I was at eye level with Lorenzo and the bed. “She gave me twenty dollars, a clean jacket, and a reason to believe people could be good. When I found out she passed away two years ago, and that her daughter was sick... I forged my references because I knew no background check would ever let me past your gate. I wanted to pay her back. I wanted to protect her little girl.”
Sophia lowered her blanket entirely. She looked between her father and me, her small hand reaching out from the sheets to touch my sleeve.
“Emma,” Sophia whispered.
The word was barely audible, but in that room, it sounded like a thunderclap.
Lorenzo snapped his head toward his daughter. Tears welled in his fierce eyes—tears he had likely suppressed for years. He reached out with a trembling hand, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from Sophia’s forehead.
“Sophi... did you just speak?” he choked out.
Sophia didn't answer him directly. Instead, she looked at me and whispered, “Sing it again.”
My own eyes burned with unshed tears. I smiled gently, taking her frail hand in mine, and began to hum the Neapolitan lullaby once more. This time, Lorenzo joined in. His voice was deep, rough with emotion and years of sorrow, harmonizing with mine in the quiet, shadowed room.
By the time the song ended, Sophia had drifted off to sleep, her breathing calm and deep.
Lorenzo stood up, looking at me with a completely different expression than the one he’d worn an hour ago. The suspicion was gone, replaced by a fragile, dangerous vulnerability.
“You stay,” he said quietly. “Not as an employee. As a guest. As family.”
“I’m staying as her nurse,” I corrected gently. “Until she beats this.”
“Agreed,” Lorenzo said. But as he turned to leave the room, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his face instantly turned to stone. The mafia boss had returned.
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“What is it?” I asked, sensing the sudden shift in the air.
“An intruder,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into ice. “Someone is testing our perimeter. Vincent thinks it’s the Moretti family making a move.”
