Chapter 2 - The Gold in the Ashes
The marble foyer of Villa Duca was vast enough to hold a congregation and cold enough to preserve a corpse.
Lorenzo Duca walked across the polished checkerboard floor, his heavy leather boots leaving faint traces of damp garden soil on the white stone. In his arms, the little girl—whose name he had not yet asked—clutched her one-eyed rabbit so tightly her knuckles were white. Pino trotted at his knee, his black coat gleaming under the iron chandeliers, eyes fixed forward like a shadow given weight.
Near the grand double staircase, three people were standing in a tight, tense circle.
The first was Ranata, the head housekeeper—a woman of fifty with a face like pinched dough and a posture that insisted she had never made a mistake in her life. The second was Elena, a young maid with eyes red-rimmed from crying, her apron twisted into tight, frantic ropes around her fingers. The third was Marco, Lorenzo’s younger cousin and head of domestic security, holding a heavy velvet-lined box containing a antique mantel clock made of gold and lapis lazuli.
“Don’t waste my time lying to me, Elena,” Ranata’s voice scraped across the hall. “It was in your locker. The master’s grandmother brought that clock from Florence. You thought you could sell the gold casing to pay off your brother’s debts—”
“I didn’t touch it!” Elena sobbed, her voice breaking against the high ceilings. “I swear on my life, Mrs. Ranata! I was cleaning the south library all morning! I don't even have the key to the glass cabinet!”
“Keys can be copied by people who need money,” Ranata sneered, reaching out to grab Elena by the arm. “The police are already on their way. You’ll be in a cell before dinner, and your little bastard can go to the county shelter—”
“Ranata.”
The single word didn't carry volume, but it stopped the room the way a bullet stops a clock.
Ranata froze. Marco stepped back instantly, his hands dropping to his sides. Elena shrank back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, her shoulders shaking violently.
Lorenzo did not accelerate his pace. He walked to the center of the hall and stopped. Pino sat down beside him, his massive jaw resting inches from Ranata’s apron.
The little girl in Lorenzo’s arms buried her face into his neck, her small body trembling. Lorenzo felt the heat of her breath against his skin—the faint, clean smell of cheap lavender soap mixed with rain.
“Mr. Duca,” Ranata stammered, her face turning pale as she looked from Lorenzo’s dirt-stained suit down to the Doberman at his feet. “I... I apologize for the disturbance. We caught the maid stealing. The Florence clock. I found it hidden in her locker wrapped in her spare uniform. I’m handling it quietly so as not to interrupt your meeting in the east wing—”
“You found it,” Lorenzo said. His voice was entirely flat.
“Yes, sir! Just ten minutes ago.”
“Where was the key to the glass display cabinet?”
Ranata blinked, caught off guard. “I... well, it was in your private study drawer, as always—”
“My private study drawer is locked with a biometric keypad,” Lorenzo said softly. He looked down at the little girl on his shoulder. “Tell me, Ranata. Did Elena hack a five-digit encryption code between sweeping the library and feeding her child?”
Ranata’s throat moved in a dry swallow. “Sir, she... she must have found the cabinet unlocked—”
“The cabinet was locked when I checked it at noon,” Lorenzo said. He glanced at Marco. “Marco.”
“Yes, Don Lorenzo?” Marco stepped forward, his eyes nervous.
“Who checked the security feed for the hallway outside my study between two and three o'clock?”
Marco shifted his weight. “The... the cameras in that corridor were undergoing maintenance today, sir. Ranata reported the offline status at one o'clock.”
A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the foyer. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked once, twice, three times.
Lorenzo looked directly at Ranata. He saw the faint bead of sweat forming at her hairline. He saw the subtle way her right hand twitched toward her skirt pocket.
“Set her down, Marco,” Lorenzo ordered softly.
“Sir?”
“Set the clock down. And call off the police.”
Ranata’s eyes widened in horror. “Mr. Duca, you can’t believe this girl over my fifteen years of service! She’s a thief! Her family is trash from the low docks—”
Lorenzo shifted the child in his arms so she was supported by his left arm. With his right hand, he reached out and casually grabbed the lapel of Ranata’s stiff wool cardigan. He pulled her forward three inches—just enough to break her balance, just enough to bring her face within four inches of his own.
“Fifteen years ago,” Lorenzo whispered into her ear, “I hired you because your husband owed fifty grand to the Moretti family, and I paid his debt so he wouldn't end up at the bottom of the harbor. You have lived in this house, eaten my food, and drawn a salary three times the market rate.”
May you like
He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing a speck of lint off her collar.
“If I discover you put a three-year-old child behind a trash bin in the rain to cover a lie, Ranata,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a tone that made Marco look away, “you will not need the police. You will need a priest.”
