Chapter 3
Helena said the practice began before Dante was born.
That made him hate it more.
Old cruelty always arrived wearing tradition as armor.
The Caruso family had once maintained a private system for children considered likely to inherit influence.
Not every child.
Only selected ones.
Children who were observant.
Quick.
Obedient.
Or useful.
They were summoned at night.
Given tasks.
Made to memorize faces.
Carry messages.
Listen outside rooms.
Learn who sat where.
Who drank too much.
Who lied.
Who feared whom.
“They turned children into servants.”
Helena shook her head.
“No.”
“What then?”
“Witnesses.”
Dante laughed coldly.
“Same poison. Better word.”
Helena looked toward Lily eating soup.
“I was six when they started with me.”
“Who?”
“Your grandfather. Two others.”
“Father?”
“Later.”
Dante remembered his own childhood.
A bell.
Midnight.
His father asking whether he remembered what three men at dinner had discussed.
Dante had thought it was a game.
He remembered being praised when he repeated exact phrases.
Punished when he missed details.
He had buried those memories under decades.
“Number seven.”
Helena nodded.
“Each child had a number.”
“Mine?”
“Three.”
Dante stared at the bell.
“Then why Lily’s says seven?”
Helena’s face tightened.
“That is why I was afraid.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Explain.”
“Seven was never used.”
“What?”
“The last number remained empty.”
“For who?”
“The future child.”
“What future child?”
Helena looked toward Lily.
“The one chosen after your generation.”
Dante’s blood went cold.
“You put this number on her.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I found the bells three weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“In the old wine cellar.”
“Who put them there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe—”
“Yes.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Because I thought the system was dead.”
Dante stopped.
Helena continued.
“When I saw the seven, I knew someone had chosen Lily.”
“So you starved her.”
Her face hardened defensively.
“I was testing whether she had already been trained.”
Dante stared at her.
“Testing.”
“If she responded naturally to the bell—”
“She is three.”
“I needed to know.”
“You needed to ask me.”
“And if you were the one training her?”
Dante’s expression became lethal.
Helena did not retreat.
“You are Salvatore’s son.”
“So?”
“So your father believed every successor eventually revived the things they condemned.”
Dante leaned back.
“You thought I was abusing my daughter through a ritual I barely remembered.”
“I didn’t know.”
“So you abused her yourself to investigate.”
Helena’s face cracked slightly.
When framed that way, she finally heard herself.
Dante continued:
“You made her run for food.”
“I needed her to respond.”
“You made her kneel.”
“I—”
“You kept her in a room.”
Helena stopped.
Dante’s voice became very quiet.
“You did not protect her from an old system.”
He looked at Lily.
“You became it.”
Helena lowered her eyes.
For the first time, shame appeared.
Not enough.
But real.
Maria spoke from the adjoining room.
“There are more bells.”
Dante turned.
“What?”
“I found one last year.”
Everyone went still.
“Where?”
“In Mrs. Caruso’s old bedroom.”
Dante’s late wife.
Anna.
Lily’s mother.
Dead two years earlier after what had been described as complications following a sudden illness.
Dante stood.
“You never told me.”
Maria’s voice shook.
“I thought it was decorative.”
“Number?”
“I didn’t see.”
“Where is it?”
“I put it in a cabinet.”
They went immediately.
Anna’s old bedroom had remained nearly unchanged.
Dante rarely entered.
Grief made men sentimental about untouched rooms.
Maria opened a small cabinet.
The bell remained inside.
Dante turned it over.
Circle.
Line.
Number six.
Not seven.
Helena went pale.
“Impossible.”
Dante looked at her.
“Why?”
“Six belonged to Matteo.”
Dante stared.
“My brother.”
“Yes.”
“Then why was his bell in my wife’s room?”
Nobody answered.
Dante felt the old floor of his life shift.
Matteo had supposedly died thirty-one years earlier.
Fever.
Hospital.
Closed funeral because disease had damaged the body.
Dante had been twenty-one.
He remembered seeing no corpse.
Only his father’s order:
Do not ask again.
Dante looked at Helena.
“Was Matteo really sick?”
Helena said nothing.
“Helena.”
May you like
She closed her eyes.
“No.”
