Chapter 3 - The Midnight Lullaby
The silence that followed the designer’s frantic departure was heavy and suffocating.
Mrs. Gable stood with her hands folded, her posture stiff as a board, her eyes refusing to meet mine.
"Take the girls upstairs and draw a warm bath for my wife," Vincent ordered without glancing at the housekeeper.
"Have the estate doctor examine her leg wound within the hour."
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Gable replied stiffly, gesturing for two younger maids to follow her.
Mia and Lily, however, clung even harder to my skirts, refusing to let the staff touch them.
"It's okay, little birds," I whispered softly, kneeling down despite the sharp twinge in my calf.
"I'm going to take a bath, and then I'll come read to you before bed."
"I promise I'm not going anywhere."
The younger one, Lily, looked up at me with large hazel eyes identical to Vincent’s.
She slowly uncurled her fingers from my sweater and patted my cheek with her small hand.
Mia nodded once, solemnly, taking her sister's hand and leading her toward the grand staircase under the watchful eye of the maids.
Vincent watched the exchange in silence, his expression unreadable beneath the harsh chandelier light.
"Your bedroom is the primary suite at the end of the east wing," he said, turning back toward his study.
"We will share the room to convince the staff and the Rossi investigators that this marriage is genuine."
"Do not worry; you will have the bed, and I will take the adjoining sitting room sofa."
"I am a man of my word, Evelyn."
"Thank you, Vincent," I murmured, feeling the weight of the enormous emerald ring on my finger.
An hour later, clean and bandaged, I stood in the center of the master bedroom.
The room was massive, decorated in muted tones of slate, navy, and dark walnut, with a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton.
The estate doctor had stitched my calf with expert precision, leaving me with a clean dressing and a bottle of pain medication.
I had put on a simple silk pajama set Madame Laurent’s trembling assistant had left behind.
It was loose, soft, and smelled of lavender, something I had never experienced in my entire life of bargain bins and second-hand stores.
I could hear the muffled sound of Vincent’s voice through the heavy oak door of his study down the hall.
He was barking orders about port shipments, union bosses, and security sweeps, reminding me that danger lived in the very foundation of this house.
Unable to sleep, I slipped out into the dimly lit hallway, guided by a motherly instinct I didn't know I possessed.
I walked toward the children's wing, the thick carpet muffling my bare footsteps.
As I approached their bedroom door, which was painted a soft cream color with brass animal handles, I heard it.
A muffled, frantic whimpering.
I pushed the door open gently and stepped into the room.
The nightlight cast a faint amber glow across twin canopy beds.
Four-year-old Lily was thrashing beneath her covers, her face drenched in sweat, tangled in her sheets as a silent nightmare choked her breath.
Across the gap between the beds, Mia was sitting up, watching her sister in absolute, wide-eyed terror, unable to scream, unable to call for help.
The trauma of their mother's fiery death had stolen their voices, trapping their fear inside their throats.
I didn't hesitate.
I hurried to Lily's bedside, sitting on the mattress and gently wrapping my arms around the thrashing child.
"Shh, sweet girl, wake up," I whispered softly, smoothing her damp curls back from her forehead.
"It's just a dream, Lily."
"You are safe in your room, and nobody can hurt you."
The little girl woke with a sharp gasp, her chest heaving as she stared at me through the dim light.
Mia scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees, climbing onto the bed beside us and burying her head beneath my arm.
I pulled both little girls into my lap, rocking them back and forth against my chest.
I remembered the lullaby my own mother used to sing to me when the winters in Bridgeport were bitter and the heat was turned off.
In a soft, clear voice, I began to sing into the quiet darkness of the nursery.
"The moon is high, the stars are bright, sleep my darlings through the night."
"No shadows fall, no storms will blow, safe inside my heart you grow."
My voice wasn't trained or fancy, but it was filled with every drop of warmth and protection I had to offer this broken world.
Lily's frantic breathing began to slow, her tiny fingers curling into the collar of my silk pajama top.
Mia stopped trembling, resting her cheek against my shoulder, listening to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I continued to hum the melody, swaying gently on the edge of the mattress.
Then, a miracle happened in the shadows.
A tiny, cracked, raspy sound broke the silence.
"Mama... gone?"
It was Lily's voice, frail as dried rose petals, unused for over four hundred days.
My breath hitched in my throat, tears instantly spilling over my eyelashes.
"Your mama is watching over you from heaven, sweet angel," I whispered through my tears, kissing the top of her head.
"And I am right here to take care of you on earth."
"Evie stay?" Mia’s voice followed, slightly deeper, trembling with desperate hope.
"Yes, Mia," I choked out, wrapping my arms tighter around both of them.
"Evie stays."
"I will never leave you."
In the doorway of the nursery, a dark silhouette stood completely frozen.
Vincent stood in the shadows, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, his shoulders rigid.
He had heard them.
The father who had spent millions on speech therapists, psychologists, and specialists across the globe had just heard his daughters speak to a penniless woman he had married on a sidewalk five hours ago.
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Through the dim amber light, I saw a single, glistening tear trace a path down the hardened cheek of Chicago’s most ruthless kingpin.
He didn't step inside; he simply bowed his head, placed one hand over his chest, and slowly backed into the hallway darkness.
