Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Gallery
By mid-afternoon, the rain had settled over Lake Michigan, turning the sky into a flat slate of gray that pressed against the tall windows of the mansion’s north gallery.
The north gallery was the quietest part of the house—a long, high-ceilinged corridor lined with dark oil paintings of Italian landscapes, nineteenth-century portraits of men with severe faces, and marble busts set on mahogany pedestals. It connected the main house to the west wing, where Luca’s private offices and safe rooms were located. Few people came here during the day except the dusting staff and the security guards who walked the grounds every two hours.
Mara moved down the line of portraits with a long feather duster, her strokes light and measured. Her shoulder was throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache, the tight bandage beneath her blouse restricting the movement of her arm, but she did not slow down. In this house, slowness was noticed faster than mistake.
Footsteps echoed off the marble floor behind her—heavy, deliberate steps that did not belong to the household staff.
Mara stepped close to a pedestal, lowering her eyes as two men walked down the gallery.
The first was Dominic Varelli, Luca’s uncle. He was fifty-five, broad-chested, wearing a charcoal wool suit that smelled faintly of expensive cigars and cold rain. His hair was thick and dark, streaked with gray at the temples, and his face possessed the sharp, square line of the Varelli family before illness had carved Luca’s features down to the bone. Beside him walked Mr. Marcus, the family’s chief legal counsel—a small, thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a leather briefcase tucked tightly under his arm.
“…the docks in South Chicago won't wait until spring,” Dominic was saying, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that filled the gallery. “If the city council votes on the wharf leases next month and Luca isn't there to sign the guarantees, the Irish union will take three of the piers before we can file an injunction.”
“The power of attorney documents are prepared, Dominic,” Mr. Marcus replied softly, his leather soles clicking rapidly against the stone floor. “But Luca refuses to sign them. He believes he will be back at his desk before the end of the month.”
Dominic stopped near the marble bust of his grandfather, his heavy hand coming down on the pedestal with a dull, solid thud. He looked at the portrait of Luca that hung on the opposite wall—a portrait painted three years ago, showing Luca at the height of his power, holding a rolled blueprint of the river terminal.
“Look at him in that picture,” Dominic said, a cold, dry note in his voice. “That man could hold forty union reps in a room for six hours and not give up a single dollar. Now he can't walk from his bed to the bathroom without two nurses holding his elbows. He’s done, Marcus. The doctors know it. His mother knows it. The only one who doesn't seem to grasp the reality of the situation is Luca himself.”
“The physicians are still running tests,” Marcus murmured, glancing nervously down the gallery toward where Mara was dusting the baseboard.
Dominic followed the lawyer’s gaze. His sharp eyes locked onto Mara, assessing her plain navy dress, her white apron, and her lowered head.
“You,” Dominic called out.
Mara stopped her duster, turning slowly and bowing her head. “Yes, sir?”
“How long have you been cleaning this wing?”
“Seventeen months, sir,” she said, keeping her tone flat, devoid of emotion or hesitation.
“Have you been in his room today?”
“I polished the library this morning, sir.”
Dominic took two steps toward her, his heavy wool coat swinging open to reveal the gold watch chain looped across his vest. “How did he look?”
Mara kept her eyes fixed on the second button of his waistcoat. “Mr. Varelli appeared tired, sir.”
“Tired,” Dominic repeated with a short, cynical laugh. “A man with a cold is tired. Luca looks like a corpse that hasn't realized it’s supposed to be underground yet.” He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her small frame. “Does he talk to you?”
“No, sir,” Mara said instantly. “I perform my duties and leave when instructed.”
Dominic watched her face for three long seconds, looking for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of intelligence that might prove she was listening to more than the sound of her own duster. Mara maintained her wooden expression—the blank, distant face she had perfected over six years of working in houses where the owners treated the staff as part of the architecture.
“See that you keep it that way,” Dominic said coldly. He turned back to the lawyer, gesturing toward the west wing doors. “If he won't sign the power of attorney by Friday, we take the board vote without him. The charter allows for a temporary transfer of authority if two certified physicians declare the principal incapacitated.”
“Mrs. Varelli may object,” Marcus warned as they began walking again.
“My sister-in-law will do whatever preserves her allowance,” Dominic snapped. “She cares about the house in Palm Beach and her credit at the jeweler’s. She doesn't give a damn who signs the freight checks as long as they don't bounce.”
Their voices faded as they pushed through the heavy doors at the end of the gallery, leaving Mara alone with the marble busts and the dark oil paintings.
She stood still for a long moment, her hand resting against the cold stone of the pedestal. Her heart was beating with a rapid, steady thrum against her tight bandage. She knew enough about the Varelli family to understand what she had just heard. Luca was not merely sick; he was being systematically stripped of the empire he had spent twelve years building. If he lost control of the freight terminals, his authority in the city would evaporate overnight, leaving him an invalid trapped in a high-ceilinged mansion surrounded by relatives who were simply waiting for him to stop breathing.
Mara picked up her duster and bucket, moving toward the service stairs. It was not her affair. She was a maid paid twelve dollars a week to scrub floors and polish silver. She had three months of back taxes owed on her mother’s small acre in Illinois, and if she lost this position, no agency in Chicago would place her without a letter of recommendation from Mrs. Vale.
As she reached the bottom of the stairwell, she saw the kitchen door open.
Cook—a large, red-faced woman named Mrs. Higgins—was standing by the heavy oak prep table, furiously chopping root vegetables with a large butcher knife. Beside her stood the head physician, Dr. Bradley, a tall, thin man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a silver medical bag resting on the bench beside him.
“I tell you, Doctor, he didn't eat two spoons of the barley soup,” Mrs. Higgins was saying, her knife coming down with loud, rhythmic thuds against the wooden board. “I made it special, just like you asked—no salt, no butter, just the boiled grain and the broth. He took one taste, set the spoon down, and said it tasted like metal.”
Dr. Bradley sighed, adjusting his glasses with a pale, immaculate thumb. “Loss of taste is a common symptom of severe systemic fatigue, Mrs. Higgins. The body begins to reject complex nourishment as the metabolic rate drops.”
“He isn't rejecting it because he’s tired,” Mrs. Higgins muttered under her breath, glancing toward the scullery where Mara was setting her bucket down. “He’s rejecting it because it tastes foul. I tasted it myself before it went upstairs. It tasted like cold water boiled in an iron pot.”
“The diet is designed to reduce vascular strain,” Dr. Bradley said dryly, picking up his medical bag. “Do not alter the recipe. If Mr. Varelli refuses the soup, prepare the herbal tea I brought from the dispensary. Two cups a day, served warm.”
“He threw the tea on the rug three days ago,” Mrs. Higgins spat, her knife cutting through a turnip with a sharp crack.
“Then bring him another cup,” the doctor said coolly. “He will drink it when he becomes thirsty enough.”
Dr. Bradley turned and walked toward the main hall, his polished shoes clicking neatly against the stone tiles. Mara watched him go, her eyes lingering on the dark leather bag he carried. She had seen Dr. Bradley three times a week for the last four months. He arrived every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at precisely two o’clock, spent forty minutes in Luca’s bedchamber with the doors closed, and then left through the front entrance, where Mrs. Varelli’s personal driver was always waiting to take him back to his office in the Loop.
“Mara!” Mrs. Higgins called out, wiping her bloody hands on her white apron. “Take this tray up to the third floor guest room. Mrs. Varelli’s sister wants her Earl Grey, and she wants it before four o’clock.”
“Yes, Mrs. Higgins,” Mara said softly, stepping forward to take the heavy silver tray.
May you like
As she lifted the tray, her thumb brushed against the spout of the small porcelain teapot. The porcelain was warm, but the liquid inside gave off a strange, faint odor beneath the scent of bergamot—a heavy, flat smell that reminded her of the water that collected in the copper buckets beneath the radiator pipes in the basement.
Mara carried the tray out of the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the small stream of steam rising from the spout, her mind turning over the sharp, cold words Dominic Varelli had spoken in the gallery: He looks like a corpse that hasn't realized it’s supposed to be underground yet.
