Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Crane Estate
The third floor of the Bellandi mansion was an island of softness in a house made of stone and history.
The nursery was wide, carpeted in a thick, cream wool that made no sound under my feet, and filled with bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the high, molded ceiling. There were three small beds arranged in a row, each with a different colored quilt—blue for Leo, green for Nico, and a soft, faded pink for Mia.
By midnight, all three of them were asleep.
It hadn't been easy. Leo had demanded I verify his checkmate before he would brush his teeth, and Nico had required three full chapters of a book about polar exploration before he would let go of his blanket. Mia had simply fallen asleep while I was singing an old upholstery rhythm my grandfather used to hum when he was stretching canvas.
I sat in the rocking chair by the window, my legs aching from the miles I had walked in the rain before finding this place. The house was quiet now, save for the rhythmic clicking of the radiator and the distant sound of traffic on Lake Shore Drive.
My phone, plugged into a small charger Enzo had provided, lit up on the side table.
A single text message from an unknown number.
Evelyn. The movers found two boxes of your sewing patterns in the basement garage. Sophie says they smell like damp cardboard. If you don’t collect them by Friday, the estate manager will dispose of them. Do not come to the front house. Use the service lane.
It was Sebastian's assistant, writing on his behalf. Even now, when I was completely removed from his sight, he couldn't let me leave without a small, administrative reminder of how little I mattered. The patterns had belonged to my grandmother. They were the only things I had left from the house in Bend before I moved to Chicago and became Sebastian's biggest mistake.
I looked down at my hands. They were large, the skin slightly rough from the cold, the nails trimmed short. For three years, Sophie Crane had told me that my hands looked like they belonged to a butcher. “Sebastian needs a woman who can wear emeralds without looking like she’s holding a rented shovel, darling,” she had said at a New Year's Eve dinner while the rest of the table laughed into their crystal flutes.
"You're awake," a voice said from the doorway.
Dante Bellandi was standing there. He had removed his jacket and his tie, the top two buttons of his black shirt undone to reveal the pale skin of his throat and the dark edge of a tattoo that looked like a bird’s wing. He was holding a small silver tray with a single glass of dark liquid and a plate of cold beef.
"I was checking the children," I said, rising from the chair out of reflex.
"Sit," he said. He walked into the room, his movements so fluid they seemed almost silent despite his size. He set the tray on the table beside my phone. "Enzo said you had twenty-six dollars in your purse when you arrived."
My face burned. "I don't need charity, Don Bellandi. I have a contract with the agency."
"The agency belongs to my cousin," he said, sitting on the edge of Leo's bed, his long legs stretched out across the cream carpet. He looked out of place among the stuffed bears and children's books, like a wolf resting in a lamb's pen. "And I do not offer charity. I offer compensation. Sebastian Crane’s lawyers called my office an hour ago."
The air left my lungs in a sharp rush. "Why?"
"They wanted to know if the Bellandi family was preparing to file an interest against the Crane development sector in the West Loop," Dante said. He picked up the glass of wine from the tray and turned it slowly between his fingers. "They seemed under the impression that you had taken something from the estate that belonged to them. A file, perhaps. Or an advantage."
"I took nothing," I whispered, my voice thick with the old fear that Sebastian could always find a way to make me look like a thief. "I took my clothes and twenty-six dollars. That's all."
"I know," Dante said. He looked at my phone, which was still dark now. "Sebastian Crane is a small man who thinks he is large because his father built three hotels with city pension funds. He called you 'clean' in his memo."
"You read his memo?"
"I read everything that concerns people who sleep under my roof," Dante said. He stood up, walking over to the window where the rain was still tracing lines against the glass. "He thinks you are too big to be loved, Evelyn. That is what his sister told the society reporters at the art institute gala last month. I have the transcript."
I closed my eyes, the memory of that gala hitting me like a physical blow. I had worn a navy dress that I thought was beautiful until I saw the photos online the next morning beneath a caption that joked about the Crane family's "heavy investments."
"Why did you hire me?" I asked the dark window. "If you know who my husband is... if you know what people say about me."
May you like
Dante turned around. The ice in his eyes had turned into something dark and heavy, like the iron gates outside. "Because my children do not need a woman who wants to be small, Miss Ward. They need a woman who can carry them when the house is burning. Your husband threw away a wall because he preferred a curtain. That is his error. Not yours."
He walked toward the door, stopping just before he crossed the threshold. "The patterns in the basement garage. Enzo will collect them tomorrow morning. You will not use the service lane. If Sebastian Crane wants to throw things away, he can throw them into the lake."
