Chapter 7 - Whispers in the Library
The physical therapy session in Vincenzo’s suite on Friday morning felt charged with a strange, crackling electricity.
The old man had clearly sensed the tremor of violence that had rippled through the estate the day before.
His movements were sharper, more focused, driven by a fierce, silent urgency that refused to let him remain weak.
When Norah instructed him to squeeze a rubber grip meter with his paralyzed right hand, the needle twitched past the three-pound mark for the very first time.
Vincenzo let out a harsh grunt of satisfaction, his dark eye gleaming with triumph.
Norah recorded the metric on her clipboard with an encouraging nod.
“Good.”
She spoke quietly, treating him with the firm respect a general would accord a veteran soldier.
“We double the resistance on Monday.”
Vincenzo gave one sharp nod of agreement, his gaze lingering on her face with a strange, paternal intensity.
When her hour concluded, Norah packed her equipment and walked out of the bedroom, her mind racing with thoughts of Santino’s threats.
As she descended the grand staircase, she noticed that the heavy mahogany doors of the library on the ground floor were slightly ajar.
A faint line of warm yellow light spilled out onto the dark hardwood floor of the hallway.
She heard the low murmur of voices speaking in rapid, hushed Italian.
Intrigue and caution wrestled fiercely inside her chest, but caution ultimately lost the battle to her growing anxiety.
She crept silently across the Persian rug until she was standing just outside the gap in the door.
Leo was standing beside the large oak desk, leaning over an open leather-bound ledger covered in columns of numbers and foreign names.
Standing opposite him was an older man with silver temples and a scarred cheek, whom Norah recognized as one of Vincenzo’s most trusted capos, a man named Moretti loyalists called Uncle Franco.
“The shipments from the Palermo port are being intercepted by Santino’s men, Leo.”
Franco’s voice was tight with suppressed panic.
“If we don't retaliate by tomorrow night, the entire eastern syndicate will think we’ve gone soft.”
Leo slammed his fist down onto the leather ledger, the dull thud echoing off the bookshelves.
“We cannot afford an all-out civil war while my father is still learning how to walk again, Franco.”
Leo growled through clenched teeth.
“Santino is betting that we’ll hesitate.”
“He’s banking on the fact that my attention is split between protecting the family business and keeping the old man alive.”
“And is he wrong?”
Franco’s voice dropped to a solemn, piercing whisper.
“Are you willing to let the empire burn down to the ground just to give your father another six months in a wheelchair?”
Norah’s breath caught in her throat.
The brutal truth hanging in the air between the two veteran mobsters felt suffocating.
Before Leo could answer, a faint floorboard creaked beneath Norah’s boot outside the door.
In a blur of motion, the heavy oak door was yanked inward.
Leo stood framed in the doorway, his hand instinctively resting on the holster beneath his arm, his eyes blazing with defensive fury.
When he saw Norah standing there frozen in the hallway, his aggressive stance instantly froze into shock.
Franco peered over Leo’s shoulder, his scarred face darkening into a menacing scowl.
“What is she doing here, Leo?”
Franco’s hand slid toward his own waistband.
“She heard enough to put a target on her back.”
Norah didn't flinch, forcing every ounce of professional courage she possessed to keep her voice from shaking.
“I was heading out to my car.”
She raised her chin, looking directly into Leo’s startled eyes.
“I don't care about your ledgers, Mr. Moretti.”
“I care about my patient’s hip flexors.”
“Everything else is just background noise.”
Leo stared at her for three agonizing seconds, weighing the lethal threat against the impossible sincerity in her eyes.
Then, slowly, he raised his hand to signal Franco to stand down.
“Leave us, Franco.”
Leo ordered without breaking eye contact with Norah.
The older capo hesitated, glaring suspiciously at the physical therapist, before muttering a curse in Italian and stomping off down the hall.
Leo stepped out into the hallway, pulling the heavy library door shut behind him to seal the confidential room.
He stopped inches away from Norah, towering over her in the dim corridor light.
“You have a dangerous habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Norah.”
His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against her skin.
“And you have a dangerous habit of leaving your doors unlocked when you're discussing treason,” Norah shot back instantly, refusing to back down an inch.
Leo let out a dry, humorless chuckle that lacked any real heat.
He reached out, his large fingers lightly brushing against the strap of her medical bag as if reassuring himself she was real.
“If Santino finds out you know about the war council, I won't be able to keep you safe inside these gates.”
Norah looked up into his pale gray eyes, seeing the crushing weight of the world resting entirely on his broad shoulders.
“Then you better make sure my patient walks by Monday,” she whispered fiercely.
“Because I don't plan on dying in a turf war over imported olive oil and contraband.”
Leo’s gaze softened for a fleeting, vulnerable second before his impenetrable mask slammed back into place.
“Go home, Norah.”
May you like
He stepped back into the shadows of the doorway.
“Lock your doors tonight.”
