His eyes held hers.
She reached for a fresh napkin and dried his face.
“I don’t know what happened here,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have to sit in the dark.”
She had no idea that the man she was feeding was Giovanni Moretti, once a feared Mafia boss whose name had made powerful men lower their voices. She had never met his son Lorenzo, who now controlled the criminal organization associated with the family.
To Nora, the man was someone who needed soup.
That should have been enough.
Nora lived in a narrow apartment in Queens with a radiator that banged at night and a landlord who had begun sliding notices beneath her door. Lily, her unborn daughter, moved most in the evenings, as if she understood that those were the only hours when Nora could sit still.
Lily’s father had disappeared after leaving gambling debts and unpaid bills in Nora’s name. She was trying to straighten out which accounts were truly hers while covering rent on her own. Every paycheck had a job before it arrived.
A week after meeting John, she used eight dollars she had meant to save for groceries to buy a soft fleece blanket at a discount store.
His room always felt cold. She couldn’t bear it.
When she tucked the blanket around his legs, his fingers twitched once beneath the fabric.
“Blue was the only color left,” she told him. “I hope you don’t mind.”
His eyes shifted toward the window. It was open now whenever she was with him.
Nora began visiting before her assigned shift, during meal breaks, and sometimes after the other maids went downstairs. She never lifted him by herself; he’d looked frightened the one time another servant had tugged his chair without warning. Instead, she made sure his tray was near enough, checked the heater, and asked whether he wanted the television on.
She talked because silence filled the room too completely.
She told him about the bus that was always late, the neighbor who left oranges outside her door, and the doctor who’d said Lily was growing well.
“I’m going to name her Lily,” she said one evening, smoothing the blanket over his knees. “I want her to have a beautiful life, John. Something peaceful.”
A tear rolled from the corner of his eye.
“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered.
For the first time, she thought she saw him make an effort to smile.
Downstairs, Mrs. Gable was making lists.
The nurse’s visits had been reduced after Giovanni’s stroke. The housekeeper told anyone who asked that he was too confused to care. Several servants believed the diagnosis meant he understood nothing. Others knew he was being neglected but were afraid of losing their jobs.
Celia warned Nora while they carried clean sheets up the back stairs.
“Don’t get attached. Mrs. Gable doesn’t like anyone going into that room.”
“Why?”
“Because he makes her uncomfortable. She says he used to scare everyone.”
“What does that have to do with keeping him warm?”
Celia glanced toward the landing. “You don’t know whose house this is.”
“It’s a house where somebody needs help.”
“Just be careful.”
