Chapter 3
I moved Anna and Mia into the upstairs family sitting room.
Not staff quarters.
Not because that magically made them family.
Because I wanted them away from Celeste.
Mia fell asleep on Anna’s lap within twenty minutes.
Children can survive chaos and still obey bedtime.
Anna could not stop watching the door.
I sat opposite her.
“Why are you afraid of me?”
She looked startled.
“I’m not.”
Lie.
Not malicious.
Habitual.
“You are.”
She looked at her hands.
Then:
“Because every time I questioned Celeste, she said she would tell you I was stealing.”
Interesting.
“Stealing what?”
“Wine.”
“Jewelry.”
“Medicine.”
Different threat each time.
Nothing actually missing.
But Anna knew how accusations worked in a house like mine.
Mafia boss.
Young maid.
Who gets believed first?
Celeste designed the answer.
Then she escalated.
If Anna refused to taste my drink, Celeste said:
“If Vittorio gets sick tonight, I’ll tell him you poured it.”
If Anna refused the little restorative cup:
“You’re acting guilty.”
Control through accusation before any crime existed.
I asked:
“Why stay?”
Mia.
Of course.
Anna had lived in estate housing since Mia was an infant.
Stable pay.
Healthcare.
Childcare during shifts.
Leaving suddenly meant losing all of it.
Celeste repeatedly reminded her.
Not explicit threat.
Just arithmetic.
“You’d never find this salary elsewhere.”
“Mia likes the garden.”
“Queens rent is expensive.”
The kind of sentences people defend as observations.
Together they became a cage.
Then Anna told me something else.
Two weeks earlier, Marco asked her to sign a simple statement saying she alone prepared my evening drinks because she had “special responsibility for Boss service.”
She refused.
Good.
Why?
Because she did not prepare them alone.
Other staff did.
Marco laughed.
Said it was just internal housekeeping.
No paperwork tonight. Fine.
He dropped it.
Or appeared to.
Then Anna remembered seeing a printed staff schedule pinned in the service hall.
Her name appeared beside every one of my private drink services.
Even nights she had not worked.
Someone was building a history.
Not for police.
Not for court.
For family.
If I fell ill, every capo in the room would ask one question:
Who kept handling Vittorio’s drinks?
May you like
The answer had already been prepared.
Anna Mitchell.
