Chapter 6 - A Night of Reckoning and Healing
The roaring fire in the private family sitting room cast long, dancing golden shadows across the mahogany bookshelves.
Claire sat in a plush armchair, a soft cashmere blanket wrapped securely around her shoulders, while the family doctor—whom Vincent had dragged out of bed at 1:00 AM—applied fresh burn ointment and sterile gauze to her shoulder.
Vincent stood nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, watching every movement of the doctor’s hands as if ready to pounce if they caused her even a fraction of pain.
“The burn is first-degree with a small patch of second-degree,” the doctor instructed, packing up his leather bag. “Keep it clean, apply the salve twice a day, and she’ll heal without any permanent scarring. As for the bump on her forehead, rest is the best medicine.”
“Thank you, Dr. Vance,” Claire said softly.
“I’ll have security drive you home,” the doctor added, packing his equipment.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Vincent interjected smoothly. “She’s staying in the master guest suite on the second floor.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow, glanced at Vincent’s intense expression, then at Claire’s calm, non-reactive face, and wisely decided that questioning a Caruso was hazardous to one’s health. “Very well. Goodnight.”
Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, Rose wheeled herself into the sitting room from the adjoining hallway, looking remarkably chipper for a woman who had nearly perished in a fire a few hours earlier.
“Well,” Rose announced, parking her wheelchair beside Claire’s chair and patting her hand. “The house smells like smoke, my favorite nightgown is ruined, and my good-for-nothing future daughter-in-law is currently crying in a roadside motel somewhere outside Route 9. I’d say it’s been a very productive evening.”
Claire couldn't help the small, genuine smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.
“You could have died, Mrs. Caruso,” Claire scolded gently. “Hiding in the north wing with an emerald necklace isn't exactly standard elderly behavior.”
“Nonsense!” Rose scoffed with a wave of her hand. “When you reach my age, drama is better than television. Besides, I knew you’d come looking for me. You always check the perimeter doors during storms.”
Rose turned her sharp, perceptive eyes toward her son, who was still standing by the fireplace like an overgrown sentinel.
“Vincent.”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Go down to the cellar. Bring up that bottle of 1982 Bordeaux your father was saving for a special occasion that never happened. And then go downstairs and tell the chef to prepare a proper midnight feast for Claire and me. If I see you brooding in that corner one more time, I’m writing you out of the will and leaving the entire estate to the Boston Humane Society.”
Vincent let out a short, genuine laugh—the first real laugh Claire had ever heard from him.
“Yes, boss,” he murmured, offering his mother a mock salute before turning and walking out of the room.
As the doors closed behind him, Rose leaned closer to Claire, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“He’s a fool, my boy is,” Rose said softly. “Takes after his grandfather—stubborn as an ox, proud as a peacock, and completely blind to what’s right in front of him until the house catches fire.”
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Claire looked down at her hands, the warmth of the fire chasing away the chill of the storm outside. “He’s a mafia boss, Mrs. Caruso. Our worlds don't mix.”
“Nonsense,” Rose snorted. “This family doesn't need another society princess who cares more about diamond earrings than a dying old woman. This house needs heart. And you, my dear Claire, have enough heart for everyone in New England.”
