Chapter 4 - The Father's Room
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Lorenzo walked down the long, quiet corridor toward the east wing. The air grew noticeably colder as he approached room 4B.
He pushed open the heavy oak door.
The room was dim, the heavy velvet curtains drawn shut against the howling blizzard outside. The fireplace was cold, filled with dead, gray ashes.
Sitting in the rusted wheelchair in the corner, facing the blank wall, was Giovanni Moretti.
Lorenzo’s heart ached as he looked at the frail, silent figure of the man who had once ruled the city with an iron fist. He walked over, kneeling beside the wheelchair.
"Hello, Papa," Lorenzo said softly, taking his father's cold, frail hand in his own.
Giovanni’s dark eyes shifted, locking onto his son's face.
Lorenzo noticed the bowl of congealed, cold oatmeal sitting on the side table. A spark of anger flared in his chest, remembering Mrs. Gable’s assurances that his father was treated like a king.
"I see the staff has been neglecting you," Lorenzo murmured, his jaw tightening. "I apologize, Papa. I have been away too long. I let the wolves run the house. That ends today."
He stood up, intending to go to the kitchen to demand a hot meal for his father.
But as he moved, he noticed something strange on the small table beside the wheelchair. It wasn't trash.
It was a small, beautifully carved wooden figurine of a bird.
Lorenzo frowned, picking it up. It was intricately detailed, polished smooth by careful hands. His father couldn't have carved it, and Lorenzo highly doubted Mrs. Gable possessed the capacity for such thoughtful gestures.
"Where did this come from?" Lorenzo asked quietly.
He noticed a thick, high-quality heated blanket draped carefully over his father's lap—an item that definitely wasn't part of the standard estate inventory. He noticed the faint scent of lavender soap lingering in the cold air.
Someone had been caring for him. Someone who wasn't authorized, but who had done it anyway.
Giovanni’s eyes darted frantically toward the door, then back to Lorenzo, his right index finger twitching slightly against the armrest of the wheelchair. It was a minuscule movement, but Lorenzo, who had spent five years learning his father’s limited physical vocabulary, caught it instantly.
"What is it, Papa?" Lorenzo asked, leaning closer.
Giovanni’s finger tapped twice in rapid succession. It was a code they had established years ago. It meant urgency. It meant attention.
Lorenzo followed his father’s gaze. Giovanni wasn't looking at the door. He was looking at a small, folded piece of paper tucked underneath the base of the bedside lamp.
Lorenzo reached out and pulled the paper free. He unfolded it.
May you like
The handwriting was neat, slightly rushed, but legible.
John, I am so sorry I couldn't bring your hot soup today. Mrs. Gable has me scrubbing the cellar stairs, and my back hurts too much to make it up to the east wing. Please don't think I forgot you. I will come tomorrow. I promise. — Nora.
