Chapter 3 - The New Assignment
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“You don’t know who that woman was,” Vincent stated.
“The woman with the wine?” Nora began wrapping her knee. “I didn’t spill anything. I was buffing a mirror in the hallway.”
“Beatrice Gallow could have you blacklisted from every high-end staffing agency in the city. She could have you beaten.”
Nora released a short laugh. “Let her try. I live in Queens. My landlord is a bigger threat than some woman crying over ruined silk.”
She tied the bandage and stood. For a second, pain caused her to sway. She concealed it quickly.
“Are you firing me or not, Mr. Russo?”
Vincent looked at her hands. Her palms had been sliced by the crystal and crudely wrapped with white tape. She had knelt on broken glass for a woman she did not know. She had protected Camila while dozens of armed men in Vincent’s employment had stood watching.
“The nurse responsible for my mother is gone,” Vincent said. “I need someone with her. 24-hour coverage in alternating shifts, mostly daylight. Keep her calm. Keep her in the east wing. Make sure she eats.”
Nora stared at him. “I’m a cleaner. I’m not a registered nurse.”
“I don’t need a nurse.” Vincent stepped closer. Nora did not move back. “I have doctors on payroll to give her medication. I need somebody who actually looks at her. Someone who doesn’t treat her like broken furniture.”
Nora crossed her arms. “I work three jobs, Mr. Russo. I don’t have time to babysit.”
“I’ll pay five times what the agency paid you tonight. Cash. Weekly.”
Something changed in her eyes. Vincent saw the calculation. Five times her present wage was not luxury to Nora. It was air. Rent. Food. A way to stop drowning.
“And health insurance.” Her voice became firm. “If she bites me, or if I fall onto another pile of glass in this house, I’m not paying for it myself.”
Vincent stared at her. Powerful men begged him for favors. Others kissed rings. This injured young woman was negotiating benefits while bleeding through her bandages.
“Done. Tomorrow. 8:00 a.m.”
He turned. “Don’t be late.”
Vincent left the kitchen. For the first time in months, the weight inside his chest felt fractionally lighter.
Three weeks later, the east wing no longer felt like the same place.
Vincent usually avoided Camila’s rooms during the day. Before Nora, the curtains stayed closed. Medicine and age seemed trapped in the air. The rooms had felt like a mausoleum waiting for its occupant to stop breathing.
On a Tuesday afternoon, after a brutal five-hour meeting with his capos over the deteriorating ceasefire with the Gallows, Vincent went there because he needed silence.
He loosened his tie while walking down the carpeted hallway. Cigar smoke and the phantom scent of copper seemed embedded in his clothing.
Then he heard music.
Swing. Bright brass. Something from the 1950s.
Vincent opened the door.
Sunlight filled the room. The velvet curtains had been tied back. Dust drifted through gold light. The smell of antiseptic was gone. Lemon and lavender had replaced it.
Camila was laughing. Not the frightened laughter of confusion. Real laughter.
Nora stood in front of her, holding both of Camila’s hands. The gray maid’s uniform had disappeared. Nora wore faded jeans and an oversized green sweater, her dark hair in a long braid.
“Step. Tap. Step. Tap.” Nora exaggerated each movement. “You’ve got it, Camila. You’re a natural.”
“Thomas and I used to dance like this,” Camila said. “At the Copacabana.”
“I bet you were the best-looking couple in the room.” Nora spun her gently.
Vincent remained at the doorway. He had not slept for two days. His neck felt like wire wound too tightly. As he watched, the tension began to loosen.
Camila stumbled. Nora did not panic. She caught the movement and turned it into a small dip. Camila laughed harder.
The song ended. Nora helped her into an armchair and pulled a woven blanket over her legs.
“Tea time.”
Nora turned and saw Vincent.
She did not freeze. She did not lower her eyes.
“You’re early,” Nora said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “We weren’t expecting you until dinner.”
May you like
“It’s my house,” Vincent replied, his voice rougher than he intended.
“And this is her room.” Nora walked past him toward a small tea cart. “You’re blocking the light.”
