Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Estate
By afternoon, the atmosphere inside the Romano mansion had shifted from shock to a cold, suffocating paranoia.
The guards at the iron gates had doubled. Every staff member—from the elderly cook, Mrs. Gable, who had baked bread for three generations of Romanos, to the young gardeners pruning the rosebushes outside—had been questioned twice by Dominic.
I remained in the nursery, refusing to leave Leo’s side.
Around 3:00 PM, a soft knock rapped against the door.
“Come in,” I called out.
The door opened slowly, and a woman stepped into the room. She was elegantly dressed in a tailored emerald green dress, her blonde hair pinned back in a severe French twist. Her face bore a striking resemblance to Alessio’s late wife, though her eyes lacked their warmth—hard, calculating, and rimmed with faint shadows of anxiety.
Elena Romano—Marco’s wife, and Alessio’s sister.
“I heard about the... incident last night,” Elena said, her voice trembling slightly as she clasped her hands together in front of her waist. She walked over to the crib, peering down at Leo with an expression that hovered somewhere between genuine concern and profound calculation. “Is he truly alright? Marcus told my husband the boy nearly suffocated.”
“He’s recovering,” I said, standing between her and the crib. “Dr. Rossi cleared him for observation.”
Elena looked up, her gaze meeting mine. There was an icy assessment in her eyes. “You’re the new nurse. Clara, correct? My brother-in-law is notoriously... selective about who he lets near his son.”
“I’m professional. That’s all that matters.”
“Of course,” Elena murmured, a thin smile touching her lips. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small, silver-wrapped package tied with a white silk ribbon. “I brought him a silver rattle. For his teething. It’s an old family tradition in our house.”
I didn't touch the package. I kept my hands firmly at my sides.
“Thank you, Mrs. Marco, but the doctor has restricted all toys and objects from the crib until further notice. Infection risk.”
Elena’s smile tightened. A flicker of annoyance crossed her features before she smoothed her expression back into aristocratic grace. “How cautious. One would think there was an assassin loose in the nursery rather than an unfortunate accident with a teething toy.”
“It wasn't a teething toy,” I said evenly, watching her eyes.
Elena didn't blink. “Oh? What was it, then?”
“A blue enamel bead,” I said. “Identical to the ones on your brother’s antique music box.”
For a fraction of a second—no longer than the heartbeat of a hummingbird—Elena’s pupils dilated. Her fingers clenched around the silver-wrapped package.
Then she laughed—a light, musical sound that felt entirely hollow.
“A music box? Good heavens, Clara, half the antiques in this house have enamel inlay. Are you suggesting my husband or I had something to do with my nephew nearly dying?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs. Marco,” I replied, stepping closer. “I’m just stating facts.”
Elena held my gaze for three long seconds, her aristocratic composure holding by a thread. Then she placed the silver rattle down on the changing table.
“Tell Alessio I stopped by,” she said coldly, turning on her heel. “And tell him that paranoia is an unbecoming trait for a head of family. It makes men clumsy.”
She swept out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
I waited thirty seconds, then walked over to the changing table, picked up the silver-wrapped package using a clean tissue, and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again. This time, it was Dominic.
“The boss wants you in the library,” Dominic said, his face grim.
May you like
“I can’t leave Leo—”
“The room is secure. Four guards outside the door, laser tripwires on the windows, and I’m standing right here,” Dominic interrupted. “The boss said now.”
