Chapter 5 - The Sister in the Scullery Apron
Before descending to the dining hall, Matteo walked back into the master suite.
Elena had fallen into a deep, healing sleep, her breathing steady, the color slowly returning to her cheeks beneath the warm goose down.
Sitting on the edge of the bed watching her was Mrs. Carter, the elderly head housekeeper who had served Donna Isabella thirty years ago.
Mrs. Carter was weeping softly into a linen handkerchief, her hand gently smoothing Elena’s dark curls.
“She has her mother’s chin, Matteo,” the old woman whispered, looking up as Matteo entered. “I held her when she was three hours old. Donna Isabella kissed her forehead and said, ‘She has the heart of a survivor.’”
Matteo walked to the bedside, looking down at his sleeping sister.
He reached into his pocket and placed the antique silver rosary onto the nightstand, beside a glass of fresh water and a small plate of warm broth.
“She will never wear an apron again, Mrs. Carter,” Matteo murmured softly.
“What will you do with the Vance family, my boy?”
“I will dismantle them,” Matteo replied, his tone devoid of rage, carrying only the absolute finality of an executioner. “Down to the last brick.”
He looked at the wardrobe in the corner.
“Prepare the white silk gown from my mother’s private collection. The one she wore to the 1994 council banquet. When Elena wakes, she will dress as the Donna of this house.”
“At once, Don Matteo,” Mrs. Carter nodded with fierce, loyal pride.
Matteo turned on his heel, stepping out into the long corridor where Dante and six armed enforcers stood waiting in tactical formation.
“Open the dining salon doors,” Matteo commanded.
“Yes, boss.”
The heavy oak doors of the private banquet hall swung inward with a resounding groan.
Inside, thirty syndicate underbosses, municipal commissioners, and shipping magnates were smoking imported cigars, laughing around a thirty-foot mahogany table laden with vintage wine, roasted meats, and crystal candelabras.
At the head of the eastern table sat Arthur Vance.
Sixty-five years old, silver hair impeccably slicked back, wearing an eight-thousand-dollar bespoke charcoal suit, his gold signet ring clicking arrogantly against his crystal glass.
“Matteo!” Arthur boomed, raising his glass with an expansive, theatrical smile as Matteo entered. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned your own engagement dinner! Where is Camilla? We are ready to sign the joint maritime agreements!”
Matteo walked down the center aisle, his boots clicking rhythmically against the limestone tiles.
He didn't return the smile. He didn't take his seat at the head of the table.
He stopped two feet in front of Arthur Vance.
Dante followed behind, tossing the black leather lockbox onto the mahogany table directly between Arthur’s plate and his crystal glass.
Arthur’s smile tightened at the corners, a flicker of uneasy calculation passing through his cold blue eyes.
“What is this melodrama, Matteo? A wedding gift?”
Matteo reached into his vest, pulled out the brown glass vial of digitalis, and set it down on the linen cloth.
“Batch 1994, Arthur,” Matteo whispered, his voice quiet enough that every capo along the table stopped talking instantly.
The color began to drain from Arthur Vance’s face.
“Do you remember the dosage?” Matteo asked.
Arthur didn't move. He didn't blink. But his hand holding the crystal glass began to tremble by an imperceptible fraction.
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“Or should I ask Camilla?” Matteo continued. “She is currently in the library, waiting to explain why my mother’s rosary was found in the sleeve of a pregnant scullery maid.”
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