Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Silver Tray
The mahogany staircase of the Santangelo estate did not creak; old, heavy wood in houses built with extortion money rarely did. It swallowed sound, dampening footsteps until you felt like you were walking through velvet water.
Josie adjusted the linen napkin over the silver tray, her thumbs brushing against the engraved family crest—a wolf’s head tangled in grapevines. The soup bowl was heavy, made of bone china with a gold rim that caught the dim light of the second-floor sconces. Inside, the minestrone was hot, fragrant with rosemary and parmesan rind, prepared with the meticulous care Josie gave to every single meal she cooked since stepping foot into this fortress overlooking Narragansett Bay.
"She won't touch the broth, you know," Marta had muttered earlier in the pantry, her fingers flying over silver-polishing rags. "Never does. You just bring it up, wait ten minutes by the door so the guards see you trying, and bring it back down. Cold."
"Why doesn't she eat?" Josie had asked, her hands pausing over a head of garlic.
Marta had stopped polishing, her eyes darting toward the high window that looked out over the sea. "Old age, child. When you’ve buried a husband and two sons to this life, the stomach shrinks. The world gets bitter, so the food tastes bitter. Just do what Signora Elena says. Keep the peace."
Josie reached the third-floor landing. The air up here was different—stale, smelling faintly of lavender water and old cedar, untouched by the sea breeze that constantly scrubbed the lower levels. There was a single heavy oak door at the end of the hall, fitted with a brass deadbolt that looked more suited to a bank vault than a bedroom.
She balanced the tray on one hand and rapped three times against the wood.
"Signora Rosaria?" she called out softly. "Dinner."
No answer. Just the faint rustle of bedsheets through the thick timber, followed by a low, shuffling scrape against the floorboards. It was the sound of someone moving with immense effort, dragging a pair of slippers across the rug.
Josie waited, counting the seconds in her head, exactly as Marta had instructed. Sixty seconds. Then ninety.
She turned the key in the deadbolt. It clicked with a heavy, final sound. Pushing the door open a few inches, she slid the tray through the gap onto the small wooden table just inside the threshold, exactly where yesterday's tray sat—untouched, a film of pale fat hardening over the top of the lukewarm soup.
"I left the bread you like," Josie whispered into the dark crack of the doorway. "Fresh from the oven. Crusty."
From the shadows of the room, a dry, raspy breath hitched. A frail hand, skin like parchment stretched tight over blue-black veins, crept into the sliver of light, fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of the table. But the hand didn't reach for the bowl. It reached for the small glass of water, clutched it with a desperate, pathetic claw-like grip, and pulled it back into the darkness.
"Tomorrow," a voice whispered from the gloom, so quiet it sounded like wind through dry leaves. "Tell them... tomorrow."
"I'll be back in the morning," Josie murmured.
Before she could say anything else, a heavy boot-heel echoed sharply down the third-floor corridor. Josie turned to see Dante Santangelo standing at the top of the stairs, his broad shoulders filling the dim hallway, his sharp eyes cutting through the gloom like broken glass.
Dante was the grandson of Rosaria, the current head of the syndicate, a man who moved with the dangerous, relaxed grace of a tiger pacing a cage. He looked down at Josie, his expression unreadable, then glanced at the door.
"Is she eating?" Dante asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Josie’s chest.
"Not much, Mr. Santangelo," Josie said, holding the empty tray from the previous evening against her waist. "Just the water tonight."
Dante stared at the closed oak door for a long, agonizing moment. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Old age," he muttered, almost to himself, as if repeating a mantra he needed to believe. "She’s stubborn. Keep trying, Josie. My grandmother used to cook for an army. The least we can do is make sure she doesn't starve in her own house."
He turned and walked back down the stairs, his heavy tread fading into the velvet silence of the house.
May you like
Josie stood there for a second longer, listening to the soft, agonizing drag of slippers inside the locked room. Then she carried the tray down to the kitchen. But as she reached the second-floor landing, she remembered the strange chore Marta had ordered her to do with the leftovers—the bizarre ritual that had kept her awake for the past two weeks, turning over in her mind like a jagged stone.
It wasn't just throwing the food away. It was what had to be done to the plate before it hit the trash.
