Chapter 2 - The Old Scratches
We left the study in total silence.
Vivien walked two paces ahead of me down the long, carpeted grand corridor of the west wing. Her back was rigid, her shoulders squared beneath her tailored jacket. The moment we turned the corner into the staff service hallway—where the plush oriental rugs gave way to cold slate tile—she whipped around.
Her face was twisted with an expression I had never seen on my sister before. It wasn't just panic; it was a dark, volatile fury.
"Have you lost your mind?" Vivien hissed, her voice low and sharp as a knife. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"
"Vivien, I didn't mean to—"
"You let that child run wild into his private sanctuary!" Vivien grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging through the fabric of my sleeve. "Lorenzo Duca is not a normal boss, Sophia! He isn't a suburban father who laughs off a crayon smudge! He is a ruthless, cold-blooded executive who has men killed for minor errors in accounting! Do you know what kind of danger you just put us in?"
"He didn't seem angry," I whispered, holding Emma closer against my chest. Emma had gone quiet, sensing the sharp energy between us, burying her face in the crook of my neck.
"He didn't seem angry yet!" Vivien spat. "He was amused for five seconds because he was exhausted! Tomorrow, when his legal team arrives from Manhattan and sees a green crayon mark on his face, he will remember that you are a liability! I spent two years building my reputation in this house, Sophia! I brought you here out of pity after Mark died, and this is how you repay me? By putting a target on my back?"
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling tears prickling behind my eyes. "I'll keep the nursery locked. I won't let her leave the staff quarter floor again."
Vivien glared at me, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Emma. "You'd better. Because if Lorenzo Duca looks at either of you again, I won't be able to protect you. In fact, I'll be the one who hands you your luggage."
She turned on her heel and strode down the corridor toward the administrative offices, the sharp clack-clack of her heels echoing off the cold slate walls.
I stood alone in the hallway, my heart heavy with a strange, hollow ache.
Mark’s death eighteen months ago had destroyed everything I knew. When the scaffolding collapsed at the Jersey City site, the construction company’s insurance had folded into bankruptcy through legal loopholes, leaving me with fifty thousand dollars in medical debt and a eighteen-month-old child. Vivien had offered me a lifeline—a live-in housekeeper position at the Duca estate. I worked fourteen hours a day, sweeping floors, ironing clothes, and preparing guest rooms, earning a modest wage while Emma stayed in the small staff nursery on the third floor.
I had always been grateful to Vivien. She was my big sister, the ambitious one who had moved to New York straight out of college and carved out a career in luxury estate management.
But as I stood in the slate corridor, watching her figure vanish around the bend, a cold thought touched my mind.
Vivien hadn't just been afraid when Lorenzo laughed.
She had been terrified.
Not terrified that we would be fired—terrified of something else. Something about the way Lorenzo had looked at the drawing, or the way he had ignored her direct request to have us thrown out.
I shook the thought away, carrying Emma down the narrow spiral stairs to the primary kitchen.
The estate kitchen was vast, illuminated by high arching windows that overlooked the rear courtyard. It smelled of roasted rosemary, black coffee, browned butter, and copper polish. Marco Bellini, the sixty-year-old master chef who had served the Duca family for thirty years, was standing at the central island, chopping fresh herbs with a heavy chef's knife.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
"Marco?" I said softly.
The old Italian chef stopped his knife, wiped his hands on a clean white apron, and turned around. His thick gray mustache twitched as his dark eyes landed on Emma.
"Ah, the little painter," Marco rumbled, a warm grin spreading across his weathered face. "I heard the news. The wireless network in this house travels faster than light. Did she really draw on the Boss's face?"
"I'm so sorry, Marco," I sighed, setting Emma down on a wooden bench near the breakfast nook. "I came to get her a biscuit like Mr. Duca said, but I can take her right back upstairs—"
"Sit down, Sophia," Marco commanded gently, reaching into a ceramic jar on the counter and pulling out a soft, sugar-dusted almond biscotti. He handed it to Emma, who accepted it with both hands like a sacred treasure. "The Boss told you to give her a biscuit. In this house, when Lorenzo Duca gives an order, even the mice obey."
I sat on the edge of the bench, letting out a long, exhausted breath. "Vivien was furious. She said he's going to throw us out."
Marco picked up his knife again, but he didn't start chopping. He leaned against the stainless steel island, looking at me with a thoughtful, measured expression.
"Vivien is ambitious," Marco said quietly. "She likes things to follow a specific script. She spent three months reorganizing the household accounts to prove to Lorenzo that she could run this estate without the senior manager, Mr. Vance."
"Mr. Vance?" I asked. "The old manager who retired in August?"
"He didn't retire," Marco said, his voice dropping an octave. "He was caught transferring small amounts of money from the estate's maintenance fund into a shell account in New Jersey. Lorenzo didn't call the police. He simply took Vance's keys, took his severance, and told him that if he ever stepped foot in New York again, his pension would vanish."
I swallowed hard. "And Vivien took over his duties?"
"Vivien wants his title," Marco corrected. "She wants to be the primary administrator of Duca Holdings' domestic assets. To do that, she needs Lorenzo to see her as flawless. Unfeeling. Efficient. Like a machine."
Marco looked toward the door leading to the main house, his dark eyes reflective.
"For ten years," Marco continued, "since Lorenzo's father died in that explosion off the coast of Naples, this house has been a tomb. No music. No children. No color. Only numbers, shipping reports, and security protocols. Lorenzo built a wall around himself three feet thick."
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He looked back at Emma, who was happily munching on the biscotti, leaving sugar dust on her chin.
"Today," Marco said softly, "a three-year-old girl took a green crayon and drew right through that wall. Vivien isn't angry because you broke a rule, Sophia. She's angry because she spent three years trying to get Lorenzo Duca to look at her, and your daughter did it in three seconds with a green crayon."
