Chapter 2 - The Assessment of Hands
My hands shook so violently that the brass deadbolt rattled three times before turning.
I pulled the heavy cedar door open six inches, keeping my body tucked in the shadow behind the frame, my head bowed low, staring at the polished mahogany floorboards of the gallery.
"Mr. Duca," I choked out, forcing my voice to sound flat and professional. "I apologize for the disturbance. Emma was supposed to be in the carriage house with Mrs. Alvarez. I'll take her downstairs immediately—"
A large, warm hand rested flat against the face of the door, gently pushing it open all the way.
Lorenzo Duca stood in the archway.
He had removed his dark charcoal overcoat, wearing a bespoke midnight-blue three-piece suit with an unbuttoned collar. His dark hair was brushed back, a faint silver scar tracing his right cheekbone down to the edge of his jaw. Standing beside his left leg, clutching his trousers with one hand and holding her wooden duck with the other, was three-year-old Emma.
Lorenzo did not look around the laundry room. He did not look at the industrial baskets of folded linens or the steam rising from the press.
He looked directly at my face.
He took in my bloodshot eyes, the red tear tracks cutting through the dust on my cheeks, and the way I held my hands clenched tightly behind my back.
"Step into the light, Sophia," Lorenzo commanded softly.
"Sir, I have three baskets of linens left for the master suite—"
"I did not ask about the linens."
He stepped across the threshold, closing the distance between us with two slow, deliberate strides.
He stopped twelve inches in front of me, towering over my five-foot-four frame. Without asking permission, he reached down, took both of my wrists in his large, calloused hands, and pulled my arms forward into the bright beam of halogen light pouring from the ceiling.
Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat.
The skin across my palms was raw, stripped of its outer layer, inflamed to a bright, angry purple. The harsh industrial chemical had seeped into the creases of my knuckles, splitting the flesh into fine, weeping fissures that smeared faint traces of blood across his white French cuffs.
Emma let out a small, terrified whimper, running forward to wrap her arms around my knees. "Mommy’s hands hurt."
Lorenzo slowly rotated my wrists, inspecting every chemical burn, every split knuckle, his expression becoming an impenetrable, terrifying mask of glacial marble.
"Who ordered you to use industrial solvent without nitrile gloves, Sophia?" Lorenzo asked.
His voice was a whisper, but the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees below freezing.
"Miss Rossi," I whispered, unable to hold back the truth any longer. "She spilled her wine in the west salon. She had me scrub the carpet seven times with the pure degreaser."
Lorenzo did not blink.
He reached into his breast pocket with his free hand, pulling out a clean, hand-rolled white silk handkerchief. With breathtaking, surgical gentleness, he wrapped the soft fabric around my right palm, securing it without putting pressure on the raw burns.
He looked down at Emma, who was staring up at him with wide, tearful eyes.
Lorenzo bent down on one knee, bringing his towering frame level with my three-year-old daughter.
"Emma," Lorenzo said softly, resting his thumb against her small cheek. "Did you take good care of your mother today?"
"I brought her the duck," Emma said, holding up the wooden toy.
"You are a very brave girl," Lorenzo told her, a faint, unshakeable warmth touching his eyes. "Now I am going to take care of both of you."
May you like
He stood up to his full height, pulling an encrypted satellite phone from his pocket.
"Arthur," Lorenzo spoke into the receiver before the first ring completed. "Bring Dr. Robert Sterling to my private study immediately with an advanced dermatological burn kit. Call Marco and seal the estate gates. And tell Miss Rossi that our five o'clock dinner has been moved to the grand library."
