Chapter 6 - The Rose of the Library
The next three months passed like a dream that Elena was constantly afraid of waking up from.
Misha’s cheeks began to fill out, his translucent skin turning a healthy, sun-kissed peach color as he spent his afternoons running through the private gardens of the Marcelli estate. Dr. Silvio visited twice a week, providing the proper medicine to clear the boy’s lungs. Misha no longer colored on broken pieces of cardboard; Vincent had ordered three crates of premium art supplies from Italy, delivered directly to the cottage.
Elena’s duties had shifted completely. She no longer scrubbed floors or carried heavy trays under Mrs. Granger’s watchful, cruel eye. Her domain was the second-floor library—a magnificent, circular room lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes, a massive limestone fireplace, and deep velvet armchairs.
Vincent spent his evenings there.
He would sit by the fire, a glass of scotch in his hand, reviewing shipping manifests while Elena quietly cataloged the rare books near the upper balconies. At first, they didn't speak. The silence between them was old and cautious, the boundary between a mafia Don and his employee clearly defined.
But slowly, the lines began to blur.
"You're fixing the binding incorrectly," Vincent said one rainy Tuesday evening, not looking up from his documents.
Elena paused on the rolling library ladder, a small bottle of leather preservative in her hand. "With respect, Mr. Marcelli, this is a 19th-century French translation of Dante. The spine is made of calfskin. If I use the modern adhesive, the acid will eat through the threads within ten years."
Vincent slowly raised his head, his blue eyes catching the golden reflection of the fire. A faint, rare smile touched his lips. He leaned back in his leather chair, gesturing for her to come down.
"Come here," he said softly.
Elena descended the ladder, her green silk uniform dress—the one Vincent had personally selected for her new position—rustling softly against the wood. She stopped near his chair, her heart fluttering with a strange, nervous energy that had nothing to do with fear.
Vincent reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, old book with a faded blue cover. He set it on the table between them. "My mother gave me this before she passed away. It’s an old Russian fairy tale about a winter wolf who protects a star that fell from the sky. The binding is completely shattered. Can you fix it?"
Elena reached out, her fingers gently touching the worn fabric of the cover. She looked at the gold-embossed lettering, then up at Vincent’s face. The fierce, lethal Don who ruled Chicago looked younger in this light, the harsh lines around his eyes softening into something resembling long-buried grief.
"I can fix it, Vincent," she said softly, using his name for the first time without realizing it.
May you like
Vincent didn't correct her. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against her wrist, right over the small faded burn mark she had carried from her days in the kitchen.
"Good," Vincent whispered, his voice deep and resonant in the quiet library. "Because that book is the only thing I have left from a time when my name didn't mean blood. Take care of it, Elena. Just like you take care of the boy."
