Chapter 2 - THE ROOM NO CHILD HAD ENTERED IN SEVEN YEARS“Can we go see the man with the sad eyes now?”
Clara looked down at Sophie.
The little girl stood beside their suitcase wearing a purple winter coat, mismatched mittens, and the expression of someone who believed every problem in the world could be solved by walking toward it.
“No.”
Sophie frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Romano is busy.”
“He wasn’t busy when he came outside.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Clara opened her mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
Marco Bellini rescued her.
“He came outside because he didn’t want you leaving.”
Clara looked sharply at him.
Marco, Alessandro’s security chief, immediately became interested in the suitcase.
“That is not what Mr. Romano said.”
“No.”
Marco lifted it.
“He said the child could stay.”
“Exactly.”
“Same thing in his language.”
Clara sighed.
The Romano mansion rose behind them in pale gray stone, windows catching weak winter sunlight. Yesterday it had felt intimidating.
This morning it felt confusing.
She had spent half the night imagining Alessandro dismissing her.
Instead, he had walked barefoot into freezing air and told her Sophie could stay.
Not that Clara should stay.
The child.
Clara noticed that distinction.
So did Marco.
“Why?” she asked.
He looked toward the house.
“I don't know.”
“You've worked for him how long?”
“Eleven years.”
“And you don't know?”
Marco glanced at Sophie.
“She made him laugh.”
“That can't be enough.”
“No.”
Marco’s expression softened slightly.
“But you weren't here before.”
Clara waited.
“Before what?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Elena.”
Clara knew the name.
Everyone did.
Elena Romano.
Alessandro’s wife.
Twenty-nine years old when she died seven years earlier in a car crash outside Lake Forest.
Five months pregnant.
The newspapers had covered it for weeks.
The crime pages blamed the Ferraro organization, although nobody was ever charged.
Clara had not known Alessandro then.
She had known only the photograph used in every article.
Elena smiling beside him at a charity dinner, one hand resting over the beginning of her pregnancy.
“She liked children?”
Clara asked.
Marco looked almost amused.
“She wanted six.”
Clara blinked.
“Six?”
“Alessandro negotiated her down to four.”
Despite herself, Clara smiled.
“Negotiated?”
“They argued about everything like it was contract law.”
“What happened after she died?”
Marco’s face closed.
“You know what happened.”
Clara did.
Everyone in Chicago knew pieces.
A war.
Restaurants burned.
Warehouses changed hands.
Men disappeared.
The Ferraros lost half their freight routes over the next five years.
Nobody publicly connected every event to Alessandro.
Nobody needed to.
“Mr. Romano blamed them.”
“Yes.”
“You agree?”
Marco did not answer.
Interesting.
Before Clara could ask more, Sophie shouted:
“Rabbit!”
Her battered stuffed rabbit had slipped from beneath her arm.
She ran after it.
Clara caught her.
“No running near the driveway.”
“Poppy fell.”
Marco picked up the rabbit.
One ear remained.
The other had been missing since before Clara bought it.
Stuffing showed through a badly repaired seam along the stomach.
Marco stared at it.
Too long.
“What?”
Clara asked.
He turned the rabbit over.
“Where did you get this?”
“A church resale room.”
“What church?”
“St. Agnes.”
“When?”
“About a year and a half ago.”
Marco’s face changed.
“Why?”
“What?”
He ran his thumb across the faded blue stitching on the rabbit’s foot.
Three tiny letters.
E.R.
Clara had noticed them before.
She assumed they belonged to the previous child.
Marco looked toward the house.
“Come inside.”
“What is happening?”
“Please.”
That word from a man like Marco carried weight.
They returned to the mansion.
Alessandro was in his study.
He had finally put on a coat over a white shirt but no tie.
His hair remained damp.
He looked as though he had not slept.
Marco entered without knocking.
Alessandro’s eyes lifted.
“What?”
Marco placed Poppy on the desk.
Sophie protested immediately.
“That’s mine.”
Alessandro looked at the rabbit.
Then stopped.
The color drained from his face.
Clara’s stomach tightened.
“You know it.”
He did not answer.
He picked up the rabbit with surprising care.
Turned the left foot upward.
Saw the initials.
His fingers went still.
“Where did you get this?”
Clara repeated:
“St. Agnes resale room.”
“When?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
Alessandro looked toward Marco.
Marco said:
“Elena commissioned twenty-four.”
Clara frowned.
“Twenty-four what?”
“Rabbits.”
Alessandro’s voice was rough.
“She had them made for St. Agnes.”
His thumb moved over the stitching.
“Twenty-three were donated to the children’s shelter.”
“And this one?”
Clara asked.
He looked at Sophie.
“This one wasn't.”
Silence.
Sophie climbed onto a chair.
“It’s Poppy.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“Elena called it something else.”
“What?”
His throat moved.
“Hope.”
Clara felt cold.
The twenty-fourth rabbit had been intended for Elena’s unborn daughter.
It sat in the nursery beside a white crib.
Alessandro remembered the morning Elena brought it home.
He had complained the ears were crooked.
She told him handmade things were allowed to be imperfect.
After the crash, Alessandro ordered the nursery locked.
Nothing removed.
Nothing donated.
At least, that was what he believed.
“So how did it reach St. Agnes?” Clara asked.
“I don't know.”
Alessandro looked toward Marco.
“Who had access to the nursery?”
“You.”
“Elena.”
“Me.”
“Mrs. Tolland.”
“And?”
Marco hesitated.
“Rafael.”
Clara noticed Alessandro’s expression.
“Who is Rafael?”
“My uncle.”
Alessandro stood.
“Take me upstairs.”
Sophie reached for the rabbit.
“No.”
Alessandro stopped.
Her lower lip trembled.
“It’s mine.”
Something in his face softened.
He crouched.
“Yes.”
“You can't steal Poppy.”
“No.”
He held it out.
Sophie took it immediately.
Then Alessandro asked something Clara never expected.
“Can I look at it again later?”
Sophie hugged Poppy.
“Why?”
“Because it belonged to somebody I loved.”
The little girl studied him.
“Did she die?”
Clara’s chest tightened.
“Sophie—”
“Yes,” Alessandro said.
Sophie became very serious.
“Then you can look.”
She held out Poppy.
“But don't make her more broken.”
Alessandro stared.
“I won't.”
They went upstairs.
The west hallway ended at double white doors.
Marco unlocked them.
Seven years of stillness lived inside.
The nursery looked untouched.
A white crib.
Rocking chair.
Painted clouds.
Shelves of children’s books.
One tiny pair of yellow shoes still inside an open wardrobe.
Clara felt like an intruder.
Alessandro barely entered.
His breathing changed.
“Mr. Romano?”
He looked toward the crib.
“There.”
A framed photograph rested on the table.
Elena sat in the rocking chair holding a white rabbit.
Poppy.
The missing ear was intact.
Clara whispered:
“My God.”
Sophie climbed into her mother’s arms.
“That lady is pretty.”
Alessandro closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“She looks happy.”
“Yes.”
Then Sophie pointed toward the photograph.
“Poppy had a necklace.”
Everyone looked.
Around the rabbit’s neck in the photograph was a thin blue ribbon.
Something small hung from it.
Metal.
Alessandro stepped closer.
“Zoom it.”
Marco photographed the picture and enlarged it on his phone.
A tiny brass key.
Alessandro turned toward the rabbit.
The ribbon was gone.
But along the remaining ear was a seam Clara had always assumed was a repair.
Marco touched it.
“This stitching isn't original.”
Clara’s heart accelerated.
Sophie clutched her mother.
“Are you going to hurt Poppy?”
“No,” Clara said.
Then looked at Alessandro.
“No cutting unless she says yes.”
He nodded immediately.
Sophie thought.
“What’s inside?”
“We don't know.”
“Can Mommy fix it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Clara used tiny sewing scissors from Elena’s old craft basket.
Three stitches.
Four.
The seam opened.
Something slid into her palm.
A key.
And a strip of paper folded so tightly it had become almost rigid.
Alessandro unfolded it.
Elena’s handwriting.
He knew before reading a word.
His face changed.
The note contained only one sentence.
IF YOU FOUND HOPE, DO NOT TRUST THE STORY THEY TOLD ALESSANDRO ABOUT MY ACCIDENT.
Nobody spoke.
May you like
Seven years after Elena Romano died, the first person to bring her warning home was a three-year-old girl carrying a two-dollar rabbit.
And for the first time, Alessandro began to wonder whether the war he had spent seven years fighting had been built on a lie.
Related Stories
