Chapter 5 - The Trembling Hands
Every step toward the head table felt like walking toward a firing squad. The bodyguards’ eyes tracked her movements, scanning her hands, her uniform, and the bulge of her pregnancy. Nora kept her eyes lowered, focusing on the rhythmic clinking of the silver pitcher in her hands.
As she reached the head of the table, Lorenzo did not even glance up. He was cutting into his steak, his attention consumed by business documents spread out beside his plate.
Nora stepped between Lorenzo and Giovanni, carefully leaning forward to pour iced water into the Don’s crystal goblet. The weight of the heavy silver vessel strained the muscles in her forearm, and an involuntary spasm of pain shot through her lower back. She gasped softly, catching herself against the edge of the carved dining table.
"Careful, girl," Mrs. Gable hissed under her breath, stepping forward with venom in her eyes. "If you spill a single drop on the master's papers, you'll be out on the street tonight."
Nora quickly regained her balance, bowing her head. "I apologize, ma'am. Forgive me."
She lifted the linen napkin to dab away a single stray drop of condensation that had rolled near Giovanni’s cuff. As she reached out, her fingers brushed against Giovanni’s left hand—the hand that was supposed to be completely dead from the stroke.
Suddenly, with shocking strength, Giovanni’s fingers closed around her wrist.
Nora froze.
The entire dining room seemed to fall into absolute silence. The rhythmic scrape of Lorenzo’s knife against his plate stopped instantly.
Every bodyguard in the room shifted, hands dropping to their holsters with sharp, synchronized clicks. Mrs. Gable gasped, her face draining of color.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lorenzo’s voice cut through the air like a razor.
Nora stood completely still, her heart hammering in her throat. She looked down at Giovanni. The old man wasn't hurting her; his grip was firm, deliberate, and protective. He was holding her wrist against his chest, refusing to let her pull away.
"Let go of him, you clumsy idiot!" Mrs. Gable snapped, lunging forward to pry Giovanni’s fingers loose. "Mr. Moretti, I am so sorry! This maid is completely incompetent! She must have startled him with her sudden movements! The old man has involuntary reflex spasms—the doctors warned us about this!"
Gable grabbed Nora’s arm, digging her manicured fingernails into the bruise she had made earlier that morning, trying to rip Nora away.
"Get your hands off her," Lorenzo said.
The words were spoken quietly, without shouting, but they carried enough venom to freeze the blood in Mrs. Gable’s veins.
The housekeeper stopped instantly, pulling her hands back as though she had touched red-hot iron. "Sir... she is upsetting your father—"
"I said," Lorenzo repeated, turning his piercing gray eyes toward the housekeeper, "get your hands off her."
Lorenzo set his silver cutlery down with deliberate care. He stood up to his full, towering height. His massive frame, broadened by years of combat and gym work, completely dwarfed everyone at the table. He rounded the corner of the walnut table and stopped directly in front of Nora and his father.
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Giovanni did not release Nora’s wrist. Instead, using the last ounce of physical strength in his body, the old man slowly pulled Nora closer, until her hand rested against his heart.
Then, with the entire room watching in stunned disbelief, Giovanni lifted his right arm—the arm Mrs. Gable had claimed was completely paralyzed for five years—and placed his trembling palm gently against the swollen curve of Nora’s pregnant stomach.
