Chapter 4 - The Debt of Federal Hill
The next morning, the sun rose over Federal Hill in a pale, watery yellow, lighting up the grease on the windows of the laundromat and the piles of wet leaves clogging the gutters. Rosalind was already at her station, her arms covered in flour to the elbows, her fingers mechanically working a massive batch of rye dough.
She hadn't slept. She had spent the night watching Poppy sleep, staring at the little girl’s long, dark eyelashes and the slight, aristocratic curve of her jawline—features she had always thought were just a beautiful accident. Now, she saw the Belmonte blood in every line of the child’s face.
The bell over the door chimed, its brass ring clear and sharp in the early morning quiet.
Rosalind didn't look up, expecting Mrs. Alvarez or one of the early shift workers from the transit station. “Good morning. The rolls will be out of the oven in ten minutes.”
“I’m not here for the rolls, Rosalind.”
The voice was sharp, polished, and carried the distinct, nasal cadence of the wealthy northern suburbs.
Rosalind stopped kneading. She wiped her hands slowly on her apron and turned around.
Clara Fairchild stood by the pastry display case. At thirty-eight, her sister looked like a woman who had never known a day of hard labor. She wore a tailored camel-hair coat, an expensive leather handbag slung over her forearm, and her diamond rings glinted under the cheap fluorescent lights of the bakery. But despite her elegance, Clara’s face was tight with panic, her eyes darting nervously toward the fogged window.
“Clara,” Rosalind said, her voice flat, devoid of any sisterly warmth. “You’re a long way from Newport.”
“We need to talk, Rose. Inside. Somewhere private,” Clara said, stepping toward the kitchen partition without waiting for an invitation. “I saw the black cars parked down the street last night. I know Cassian came here. I know he’s back in Providence.”
Rosalind didn't move to block her, but her posture remained like stone. “He was here, Clara. He showed me a letter. A letter with your signature on it, addressed to Vittorio Belmonte sixteen years ago.”
Clara’s hand flew to her throat, her manicured nails digging into her skin. “Rose, listen to me. You don't understand how things were back then. Father was dying, the hospital bills were killing us, and the bakery was months away from foreclosure. Vittorio came to me. He said if you didn't leave Cassian, he would ensure our family was wiped out. He offered me fifty thousand dollars to get you out of the city.”
“But I didn't leave the city, Clara,” Rosalind said, her voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register that made her sister flinch. “You took the money, you bought your house in Newport, and you let me sit on those back steps for two years waiting for a man you told me had abandoned me. You let me believe I was broken, unlovable, and discarded, just so you could marry into money.”
“I saved your life!” Clara cried out, her voice cracking with a desperate, selfish justification. “If you had stayed with him, you’d be dead by now, Rose! Look at what happened to his brother Julian! Look at what the Belmontes do to the people they love! They consume them! I gave you a quiet life. A safe life.”
“You stole my life,” Rosalind said, stepping out from behind the counter until she stood directly in front of her sister. “And now, the bill has come due.”
May you like
The door to the back kitchen swung open, and Cassian stepped into the room, his long black coat gone, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the heavy, dark tattoos of the Belmonte syndicate covering his forearms. He looked at Clara with a cold, predatory detachment that made the younger sister drop her leather bag onto the floor.
“Good morning, Clara,” Cassian said, his voice like dry leaves scraping across a grave. “We were just talking about your husband’s real estate holdings in the West End. It seems his primary credit line is held by a bank that my family purchased last Tuesday.”
