Chapter 3 - THE HOUSEKEEPER’S SECRET
By 4:00 AM, the rain had settled into a steady, grey drizzle.
Down in the estate’s massive kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee and lavender floor cleaner hung in the air. Sitting at the long oak island was Clara Carter, Emma’s mother.
Clara was twenty-seven years old, a hardworking, quiet woman with dark hair tied in a loose ponytail. She wore a simple gray housekeeper’s uniform. She had worked at the Duca estate for two years, arriving six months after her husband, a local mechanic, died in a tragic factory accident. She had taken the job to provide a safe life for little Emma.
Clara was sitting with her hands clasped around a hot mug, her face pale with worry.
When Daniel had knocked on her servant quarters door at midnight to tell her that Emma was in Lorenzo’s master bedroom under guard, Clara had nearly had a panic attack. In the mafia world, being called to the Don’s quarters in the middle of the night usually meant execution or exile.
The heavy swinging doors of the kitchen opened.
Lorenzo walked inside. He looked exhausted, his white shirt stained with sweat at the collar, but his posture was upright and commanding.
Clara instantly stood up, her hands trembling. “Mr. Duca! I’m so sorry! I don't know how Emma slipped out of our room! She has a habit of wandering when she hears rain—I swear to God I locked the door! Please don't punish her!”
Lorenzo stopped four feet away from her. He looked at the terrified mother.
“Sit down, Clara,” Lorenzo said gently.
Clara blinked, taken aback by the soft tone. She slowly sank back into her wooden chair.
Lorenzo walked over to the coffee maker, poured himself a dark mug, and sat down opposite her at the island.
“Your daughter did not commit a crime tonight, Clara,” Lorenzo said, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. “She saved my son’s life.”
Clara stared at him, her lips parted in shock. “What?”
Lorenzo reached into his pocket and placed Emma’s cloth doll on the table between them. Emma had fallen asleep in his bed an hour ago, clutching the doll until her fingers relaxed.
“Vivian Chen was poisoning Lucas,” Lorenzo explained quietly. “She was putting thallium and digitalis into his morning drinks and sewing concentrated poison packets into his pillows. The doctors were clueless. They thought my son had a rare genetic failure.”
Clara gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “Nurse Vivian? Oh my God... that monster! I... I saw her in the linen room yesterday! She was holding a pair of small sewing scissors, but when I walked in, she hid them under a towel. I thought she was just mending a bedsheet!”
“Emma saw her,” Lorenzo said. “Emma found the packet. If your daughter hadn't brought that packet to my study tonight, Lucas would have been dead within two weeks.”
Clara felt tears of relief and horror stream down her cheeks. “Is... is Lucas going to be okay?”
“Dr. Quinn is administering the antidote now,” Lorenzo said. “He’s going to survive.”
Lorenzo reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a sleek leather checkbook. He unscrewed his fountain pen, wrote several lines on a check, tore it out, and slid it across the wooden table toward Clara.
Clara looked down at the paper.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
The check was made out to Clara Carter for the amount of Five Million Dollars.
“Mr. Duca...” Clara stammered, backing away from the table as if the paper were on fire. “No! I can’t take this! That’s... that’s insane! We’re just servants! Emma didn't do it for money—”
“Clara,” Lorenzo interrupted, his voice absolute and undeniable. “Five million dollars is nothing compared to the life of my son. You will take this money. You will buy a secure home. You will put Emma in whatever private school she chooses when she grows up.”
He reached across the table and pushed the check into her hands.
“Furthermore,” Lorenzo continued, “from this day forward, you are no longer a housekeeper in this house. You and Emma are under the personal protection of the Duca family. Anyone who touches you, touches me.”
Clara held the check, her hands shaking violently as tears spilled onto her lap. For two years, she had worried about rent, about medical bills for Emma, about whether she could afford shoes for her growing daughter. In a single night, her life had been transformed forever.
“Thank you, Mr. Duca,” Clara sobbed softly. “Thank you so much.”
“Don't thank me,” Lorenzo said, standing up and picking up his coffee mug. “Thank the little girl sleeping in my bed.”
He walked toward the exit, but stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder.
“Clara?”
May you like
“Yes, Mr. Duca?”
“Pack your things from the servants’ quarters,” Lorenzo instructed. “Starting today, you and Emma will occupy the guest suites on the second floor. Right next to Lucas’s room.”
