Chapter 5 - The Barolo
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It was late January when Clara discovered the wine.
She was dusting the library late in the evening. Raphael was out, attending a dinner with the heads of the New York families. The library was Raphael’s sanctuary, smelling of old paper, leather, and expensive cigars.
Clara moved carefully around his massive oak desk, wiping down the wood. Beside a stack of shipping manifests sat a small, crystal glass filled with dark red wine.
It was untouched.
Clara frowned. She had cleaned the library dozens of times and noticed the same routine. Every night, a glass was poured. Every morning, Mrs. Dora threw it away and washed the crystal.
She looked over at the glass-fronted wine cabinet in the corner. There, resting on a velvet stand, was a single, dusty bottle of Barolo. The label was faded, dated decades ago.
Clara knew enough about wealth to know the bottle was worth more than she made in a year. But it wasn't the price that caught her attention; it was the reverence of its placement.
The heavy library door clicked open.
Clara gasped, spinning around, the dust rag clutched to her chest.
Raphael stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted. The sharp, intimidating lines of his face were softened by sheer fatigue. He loosened his silk tie, his eyes falling on Clara standing near the desk.
"I apologize, Mr. Duca," Clara stammered quickly, her heart racing. "I thought you were out for the evening. I'll leave immediately."
She grabbed her cleaning supplies and hurried toward the door, her limp pronouncing itself in her haste.
"Clara."
The sound of her name spoken in his low, quiet voice stopped her dead in her tracks. He had never spoken her name before.
She turned slowly. "Yes, sir?"
Raphael walked into the room, past her, and stood behind his desk. He looked down at the untouched glass of Barolo.
"Do you know why I pour this glass every night?" Raphael asked, not looking up.
Clara swallowed hard. "No, sir. Mrs. Dora simply told us to clean it in the morning."
Raphael picked up the glass. He swirled the dark red liquid, staring into it as if searching for a ghost.
"My father bought this bottle when I was a boy," Raphael said quietly. "He told our entire family that he would open it on my wedding day. We would drink it together."
He set the glass back down.
"He was killed when I was nineteen," Raphael continued, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold recitation of facts. "He never saw me become a man. He will never see my wedding. So, I pour a glass for him. And I let it sit."
Clara stood frozen. The most feared man in Boston was standing in front of her, confessing a deeply personal, agonizing ritual.
"Why are you telling me this, sir?" Clara asked softly, her fear momentarily eclipsed by genuine empathy.
Raphael finally looked up. His dark eyes met hers, and for a fraction of a second, the impenetrable wall he built around himself cracked.
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"Because," Raphael whispered, "you are the only person in this house who understands what it means to hold onto something broken."
He didn't explain further. He simply nodded to the door, dismissing her. Clara walked out, her chest tight, realizing that the monster of the North End was bleeding just as badly as she was.
