Chapter 2 - The Shadows of the Duca Estate
The sun struggled to push through the heavy fog rising from the gray bay beyond the cliffside gardens. Morning at the Duca estate never arrived with warmth; it rolled in like an unspoken judgment, gray and absolute. I sat on the edge of the guest bed, listening to the muffled clatter of silver and porcelain coming from the ground floor. Mrs. Costa was preparing breakfast, her movements precise, disciplined, and entirely devoid of joy.
Dr. Bianchi, a severe woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe knot, entered the room without knocking. She carried a black leather medical bag that smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper.
"Let me see your arm, Maya," she said, her voice dry as autumn leaves.
I extended my left hand. The bruising around the site where I had ripped out the IV line was an ugly shade of purple and black. Dr. Bianchi pressed her cold fingers against my wrist, checking my pulse.
"You are a fool," she said matter-of-factly.
"I woke up and my daughter wasn't in my room," I retorted, pulling my hand back slightly. "Any mother would have done the same."
"Most mothers are not employed by a man who keeps armed guards at the perimeter and industrial solvents in the basement," Dr. Bianchi replied, opening her bag to retrieve a sterile cotton swab and a tube of ointment. "Lorenzo Duca does not tolerate hysteria. The fact that he carried your child into his private wing instead of handing her over to security means you are either immensely valuable or terribly doomed. Which is it?"
Emma looked up from coloring with a stray crayon she had found on the nightstand, her gray rabbit propped up against her knee. "He was nice. He has big hands."
Dr. Bianchi paused, her gaze shifting sharply to the child, then to me. "He showed her his hands?"
"Just one," I whispered. "For a moment."
The doctor's expression tightened into a hard line. She applied the ointment to my bruised skin with brisk, efficient strokes. "Keep your mouth shut about what you saw, Maya. In this house, secrets are currency, and seeing Lorenzo's skin is like holding a counterfeit bill. People disappear for less."
"I don't care about his secrets," I said, though the knot in my stomach told a different story. "I care about keeping my job, paying for Emma's medicine, and getting out of this place before the end of the year."
Dr. Bianchi snapped her bag shut. "People don't simply leave the Duca estate, child. You sign a contract with ink that doesn't wash off. Now, eat your breakfast when Mrs. Costa brings it. The master expects you in his study at noon."
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"At noon?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat. "Why?"
"Because," the doctor said, turning toward the door, "he wants to talk about the blood you were scrubbing off the floor last night."
