Chapter 2
Lily refused to let go of Dante for forty-seven minutes.
He knew because he checked his watch twice and hated himself both times.
A father should not measure how long his frightened child needs to hold him.
He carried her upstairs.
Past her nursery.
Past the bright playroom.
Lily stiffened when he turned toward her bedroom.
“No.”
Dante stopped.
“What?”
She buried her face against him.
“Bell room.”
His stomach tightened.
“Your room?”
“No.”
She pointed toward the service hallway.
Dante looked at Maria.
The housekeeper had followed at a distance.
Her face changed.
“Show me.”
Maria hesitated.
“Mr. Caruso—”
“Show me.”
They went down one floor.
Through a corridor used mostly by staff.
At the end was a narrow room Dante had always assumed was storage.
Maria opened it.
Inside was a child-sized cot.
A blanket.
A tin cup.
A wooden stool.
Nothing else.
On the wall hung another brass bell.
Dante stood in the doorway.
His daughter started shaking.
He handed her to Maria.
Then entered.
The room smelled faintly of soap and old plaster.
No toys.
No books.
No light except a narrow ceiling fixture.
He looked under the cot.
A stack of napkins.
Folded carefully.
Beside them—
three pieces of stale bread.
Dante picked one up.
Hard.
Old.
He turned toward Maria.
“How long?”
She began crying.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“How long.”
“Two weeks.”
Dante closed his eyes.
He had been home three nights during those two weeks.
Late.
After meetings.
He had checked on Lily twice.
Each time Helena told him she had finally gotten the child to sleep.
Dante never entered.
He accepted the closed door.
That fact would remain with him longer than Helena’s cruelty.
“What did you see?”
Maria wiped her face.
“She started making Lily carry things. Napkins. Water glasses. Towels.”
“And you allowed it.”
“No.”
Maria’s voice cracked.
“I tried to feed her.”
“Then?”
“Helena found out.”
“What did she do?”
“She told me if I interfered again, my son would lose his position at the docks.”
Dante stared.
Maria’s adult son worked for a Caruso-controlled shipping company.
Not a soldier.
Not involved in family business.
Helena had used him anyway.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
Maria looked at him.
“Because nobody could reach you.”
The words were not accusation.
That made them worse.
“I have a phone.”
“You had meetings.”
“I have men.”
“They answered to Helena when you were away.”
Dante’s expression changed.
Maria continued:
“She told everyone you approved the discipline.”
“And they believed her.”
“They believed you were becoming like your father.”
Silence.
Dante looked toward Lily.
The child was staring at the bell.
His father.
There it was.
The ghost that still ruled parts of the house.
Salvatore Caruso had been dead seventeen years.
Yet people still measured Dante against him.
Some with admiration.
Some with fear.
Dante had spent his life insisting he was different while using the same rooms, same guards, same hierarchy, same silence.
Maybe difference was not something a man declared.
Maybe people around him had to feel it.
Dante removed the bell from the wall.
Turned it over.
Same symbol.
Circle.
Line.
Number seven.
“Maria.”
She looked at it.
“Do you know this mark?”
“No.”
Helena’s voice came from the corridor.
“She doesn’t.”
Dante turned.
Two bodyguards stood beside his aunt.
Helena had demanded to speak.
Dante had not invited her.
Yet somehow she had come.
Interesting.
“Who allowed you upstairs?”
Helena glanced at one guard.
The man looked uncomfortable.
Dante saw everything.
Authority had blurred while he was gone.
That would be corrected later.
He looked at Helena.
“The mark.”
“Old house system.”
“What system?”
She smiled faintly.
“You really don’t remember.”
Dante stepped closer.
“I remember a locked room.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Then your father failed.”
“What was behind it?”
Helena looked toward Lily.
“Not in front of her.”
Dante looked at Maria.
“Take my daughter to my suite.”
Lily grabbed his lapel.
“Daddy come.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Now.”
He changed his own order.
Helena watched.
Dante lifted Lily again.
“We talk in my suite.”
Helena almost laughed.
“You’re letting a child dictate the room now?”
Dante looked at her.
“No.”
He held Lily closer.
“I am deciding my daughter matters more than your comfort.”
Helena said nothing.
Inside his suite, Lily ate warm soup while Maria sat beside her.
Dante remained in the adjoining sitting room.
Door open.
He could see his daughter.
Helena sat opposite him.
“What is seven?”
Helena’s eyes moved toward the bell.
“Seven children.”
Dante went still.
“What children?”
“Caruso children.”
“Names.”
“I only knew four.”
“Names.”
Helena exhaled.
“You.”
Dante stared.
“Your brother Matteo.”
His jaw tightened.
Matteo had died at sixteen.
Or that was what Dante had always believed.
“Your cousin Gabriel.”
Dead.
Car accident.
Age fourteen.
“And?”
Helena looked toward Maria.
Then at Lily.
“Me.”
Dante stared at his sixty-four-year-old aunt.
“You were one of them.”
“Yes.”
“One of what?”
May you like
Helena’s voice became quieter.
“Children taught to answer the bell.”
