Chapter 4 - The Rebellion
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I should have been terrified. Luca Moretti’s fiancée had just fired me. In Chicago, crossing this family meant you couldn't get a job sweeping streets, let alone working in another high-end house.
Maybe I was terrified. But as I stood there looking at the five hundred dollars sitting on the table, all I could think about was my mother.
Thirty years she spent sewing hems and fixing other people’s broken clothes and instruments. Her hands were currently twisted and ruined by severe arthritis, but she had taught me something long before the pain set in.
If somebody made something with love, Emma, you don’t destroy it just because you have enough money to replace it.
I turned my back on Vanessa and sprinted toward the west sitting room.
The movers had just finished strapping the heavy blue blankets around the piano. They were tipping it onto a heavy-duty dolly.
“Stop,” I ordered, breathless.
The taller mover frowned. “Lady, we got orders to move this out.”
“The orders changed,” I said, walking up to the instrument. “Take the wrapping off.”
“Are you sure?”
“Take it off,” I repeated firmly. “And unstrap it.”
They grumbled, but they did it. When the piano was sitting back on its own three legs, the polished black wood gleaming, I pointed toward the double doors leading to the grand dining room.
Thirty-four of the most powerful people in the city were currently taking their seats for the engagement dinner.
“Don't take it out the service entrance,” I told the movers, my heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs might crack. “Roll it in there.”
The movers looked at each other, then back at me. I wasn't wearing a uniform that commanded respect, but I had the authority of someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose.
“You’re the boss,” the mover shrugged.
I braced both hands against the side of the heavy instrument. Together, the three of us pushed the massive piano out of the sitting room, down the marble corridor, and directly toward the grand dining room.
The heavy mahogany doors were open. The sound of clinking crystal and polite laughter drifted out.
“Emma, what the hell is that doing in here?”
Vanessa Bellini stood up so quickly her chair struck the wall behind her with a loud thud.
Thirty-four wealthy guests immediately turned toward the doorway.
We rolled the piano right into the center of the polished marble floor. Dust still clung to one side. The brass pedals were tarnished. And the fallboard was wide open, exposing the six white keys near the center of the keyboard that had been violently stripped down to bare wood.
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Vanessa was wearing her red satin gown. Diamonds sparkled at her throat.
And tucked perfectly into her blonde updo was the beautiful white comb made from six narrow pieces of polished ivory.
