174.🚉 The Little Girl Who Saw the Mafia Boss’s Dead Wife at the Station

Chapter 02 - Bruno Comes Down the Stairs

Bruno did not run.

Men like that never run in front of witnesses. They come down the stairs as if the world has misunderstood them and they are kind enough to explain.

He descended slowly, one hand brushing the rail, dark hair still damp as though he had walked through fog. He wore the gray suit he used for business mornings and the expression of a man who had already chosen which lie would hurt least.

“Lorenzo,” he said.

Lorenzo did not answer.

I kept one arm around Emma, feeling her tiny ribs move in and out beneath her dress. She had no idea what she had done. She watched Bruno with curiosity, not fear, and that frightened me more. Children were trusting until adults taught them better.

Bruno reached the bottom step and looked at Emma.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “I think you may have seen someone who looked like Mrs. DeLuca.”

Emma shook her head at once.

“No. She had the sad mouth.”

The sad mouth.

Lorenzo flinched.

It was so small I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching him. But Bruno saw it, too, and his eyes closed for half a second.

“Where were you yesterday at four?” Lorenzo asked.

“In transit.”

“To Milan?”

“Yes.”

“Your luggage is upstairs.”

Bruno’s face hardened.

“My flight was changed.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I meant to.”

Lorenzo stepped close enough that the two men stood nearly shoulder to shoulder. The guards did not move. The house did not breathe.

“My wife is dead,” Lorenzo said. “My maid’s child says she saw her behind a train station with you. Now you will tell me exactly what happened, and you will do it in front of the child because she is the only person in this house who appears to have told me the truth today.”

Bruno looked past him, toward the hall that led to the private offices.

That glance told me he was not alone in whatever secret had just cracked open.

“I can’t,” Bruno said.

Lorenzo’s hand came out of his pocket. Not fast. Not violent. Just enough movement to make every man in the foyer understand the day had changed.

“Can’t,” he repeated. “Or won’t?”

Bruno swallowed.

“There are things you don’t know.”

“Then educate me.”

“Not here.”

Lorenzo laughed once, without humor.

“My wife has been in a grave for sixty-three days, and you want privacy?”

Bruno lowered his voice.

“If I speak in this foyer, she dies for real.”

The words landed softly. That made them worse.

Emma’s little fingers pinched my apron. “Mommy, did I do bad?”

I bent toward her. “No, baby. You told what you saw.”

Bruno looked at me then, really looked, and I saw pity in his face.

That unnerved me more than his lies.

Lorenzo turned to one of the guards. “Close the front doors. No one leaves the grounds.”

The guard moved at once.

Then Lorenzo pointed toward the west hall. “Study.”

Bruno shook his head.

“No phones. No cameras. No house line.”

A muscle jumped in Lorenzo’s jaw.

“You don’t give rules in my home.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

The guards reacted then, a subtle shifting of shoulders, like wolves hearing a branch break. Lorenzo did not look at them.

He looked at me.

“Sophia, take Emma upstairs.”

I should have obeyed. I had obeyed every reasonable instruction in that house for nine months because obedience paid the rent and kept Emma in shoes. But something in Bruno’s face kept me still.

“Sir,” I said carefully, “if this has anything to do with what she saw, I need to know whether my daughter is in danger.”

Lorenzo stared at me.

People often mistook his silence for cruelty. I had seen cruelty. Cruel people enjoyed making you wait. Lorenzo’s silence was different. He used it to decide whether the truth deserved a door.

Finally he said, “Yes.”

My stomach dropped.

Bruno whispered, “Lorenzo.”

But Lorenzo kept his eyes on me.

“If she saw Serena, then yes. Your daughter may be in danger.”

Serena.

Mrs. DeLuca’s name, spoken aloud, changed the temperature in the foyer. I had only heard it twice before. Once from Mrs. Bell, the house manager, in a warning. Once from a gardener who crossed himself after saying it by accident.

Emma leaned against my shoulder.

“The pretty lady said my name,” she whispered.

Bruno turned sharply.

Lorenzo crouched then, bringing himself to Emma’s height. He did not touch her.

“What did she say?”

Emma thought hard, her brow wrinkling.

“She said, ‘Emma Walker?’ Like that.”

My blood went cold.

I had never met Serena DeLuca. My daughter’s name was not known outside the staff list, and staff lists did not hang behind abandoned train stations.

“How would she know Emma?” I asked.

No one answered.

Then a woman’s voice came from the hallway behind us.