Chapter 3: What He Said at the Table
"I'm going to pay for the medicine."
Carmen turned back from the window.
"No."
"It's not a question."
"Mr.
Torino." Her voice was steady, but her hands were still pressed flat against her thighs.
"I appreciate what you're saying.
I do.
But we are not your responsibility."
"Isabella ate cold pasta off my pantry floor at midnight." Vincent wrapped both hands around his coffee cup.
"That makes it my responsibility."
"She shouldn't have been here.
That was my failure, not yours."
"Carmen."
"I'll speak to her.
It won't happen again.
You have my word."
"I know it won't happen again." He set the cup down.
"Because starting today, you're both going to eat properly."
She stared at him.
"I'm raising your salary.
Effective immediately.
Enough to cover the medication, the rent, and food.
Whatever the doctor prescribed, I want it filled today."
"I can't accept that."
"You can."
"People will talk." Her chin came up.
"The other staff.
They'll say things.
About why you're paying me more.
About what I must be doing to earn it."
Vincent looked at her for a long moment.
"Let them talk," he said quietly.
"I've never cared what people say about me.
I'm not going to start because of gossip from my own kitchen."
"I care." Her voice didn't waver.
"I have a daughter.
What she hears about her mother matters."
The kitchen was very quiet.
Outside, the first gray light was beginning to separate the hillside from the sky.
"Then we'll call it a promotion," Vincent said.
"Head of household staff.
The title is real.
The raise is real.
Anyone who has something to say about it can say it to me."
Carmen looked at the coffee cup he had placed in front of her.
She hadn't touched it.
She reached out now and wrapped both hands around it.
"Why are you doing this?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Because Isabella asked me not to fire you," he finally said.
"And she wasn't asking for herself."
Carmen closed her eyes.
One breath.
Two.
"She's eight years old," she said, almost to herself.
"I know."
"She shouldn't have to protect me."
"No," Vincent agreed.
"She shouldn't."
Carmen opened her eyes.
She looked at him directly, the way she probably hadn't looked at him in the entire time she had worked in this house.
"The medicine is called Advagraf," she said.
"The pharmacy on Calle Menor.
They've been holding a prescription for six weeks because I couldn't cover it."
Vincent nodded once.
"I'll have someone there when they open."
She nodded back.
A small, precise movement.
The nod of a woman who had just made a decision she wasn't entirely sure about and was going to honor it anyway.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't thank me yet." He stood, picked up his cup, and moved toward the door.
Then he stopped.
"Where is Isabella now?"
"At home.
With my neighbor, Mrs.
Reyes.
She watches her before school."
"Good." He paused.
"Tell her the pasta was fine."
Carmen blinked.
A sound escaped her — not quite a laugh, but close to one.
The kind of sound a person makes when they have been holding something very tightly for a very long time and something small and unexpected loosens the grip just slightly.
Vincent walked out of the kitchen.
He was halfway up the stairs when his phone rang.
Marco.
He answered.
"We have a problem," Marco said.
"The Morettis didn't go home last night."
Vincent stopped on the landing.
"Where are they?"
"Still in the city.
And they've been asking questions." A pause.
"About the staff, boss.
About who works for you.
Who lives nearby."
May you like
The warmth that had briefly settled in Vincent's chest turned to something else entirely.
"Get the car," he said.
