Chapter 1 - You Are Fired
By the time Emma Collins entered the Bellini mansion, three nurses had already left through the same black iron gate.
The first lasted eleven hours.
The second lasted six.
The third had driven away crying.
So when seventy-eight-year-old Rose Bellini looked at Emma’s broad hips, round face, white uniform, and calm gray eyes and said, “You won’t last until dinner,” Emma did something nobody in the room expected.
She set her medical bag on the antique table.
“Try me.”
Marco Bellini slowly raised his head.
People in Chicago rarely spoke to him that way.
Technically, Marco owned restaurants, hotels, parking garages, and several construction companies. Unofficially, people used an older word when discussing the Bellini family, usually in quieter voices and after checking who was listening.
Mafia.
Emma did not care.
A man’s reputation could not lower a fever, prevent a fall, or make an elderly woman swallow antibiotics she had already decided were an insult to her dignity.
Rose’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re very confident.”
“No,” Emma replied. “I’m very tired, and I skipped lunch. Confidence looks better.”
Marco’s mouth twitched.
Rose caught it.
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled.”
“I almost smiled.”
“That counts.”
Emma pulled out a chair and opened Rose’s care folder.
Rose pointed toward the door.
“You’re fired.”
Emma closed the folder.
“All right.”
She picked up her bag.
Rose blinked.
Marco blinked too.
Emma reached the doorway.
“Where are you going?” Rose demanded.
“You fired me.”
“I was testing you.”
Emma turned.
“Mrs. Bellini, I’m a registered nurse, not a game-show contestant.”
Marco looked down to hide another smile.
Rose stared at Emma for three long seconds.
Then she pointed at the chair.
“Sit.”
“Am I rehired?”
“No.”
“Then I charge consulting rates.”
Marco actually laughed.
Rose shot him a murderous look.
Emma sat.
That was how it began.
Rose Bellini had undergone hip surgery twelve days earlier after falling on a staircase in one of the family’s properties. Her surgeon expected a good recovery. Her body was healing.
Her temper was not.
The first nurse had moved Rose’s jewelry box without asking.
The second had called her “sweetie.”
The third had discussed Rose’s “confusion” with Marco while Rose sat ten feet away.
Emma understood the problem within an hour.
Rose was not terrified of pain.
She was terrified of becoming furniture in her own life.
So Emma did not ask, “Do you need help?”
She asked, “Do you want help?”
Sometimes Rose said no.
Emma let her say no.
Sometimes Rose made it halfway across the bedroom, realized pride would not carry her the remaining distance, and silently extended one hand.
Emma took it without smiling, congratulating, or saying, I told you so.
That was the beginning of trust.
By the fourth day, Rose no longer fired her.
She merely threatened to.
“You’re enjoying this,” Rose muttered as Emma supervised her exercises.
“Immensely.”
“I dislike cheerful people.”
“I’m not cheerful. I’m well caffeinated.”
From the doorway, Marco said, “That explains a lot.”
Emma looked back.
He had begun arriving earlier each evening.
At first, she assumed he was checking on his grandmother.
Then he started arriving while Rose was asleep.
Then he started bringing two coffees.
“Medium,” he said one afternoon, placing a cup beside Emma’s notebook. “Two creams. No sugar.”
Emma stared at it.
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve had coffee here before.”
“You remembered?”
Marco shrugged.
Rose, supposedly asleep in the adjoining room, called out, “He likes you.”
Emma nearly spilled the cup.
Marco closed his eyes.
“Grandma.”
“I am recovering, not dead.”
Emma pointed toward the bedroom.
“You are also supposed to be sleeping.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“For forty-five minutes?”
“I rest professionally.”
Marco laughed.
For a moment, Emma forgot who he was supposed to be.
He was simply a man standing in his grandmother’s sunlit sitting room with his sleeves rolled up, an expensive watch on one wrist and tiredness beneath his eyes.
Then his phone rang.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
That was what unsettled Emma.
Warmth disappeared as if someone had closed a door behind his face.
“Yes?” he answered.
He listened.
“No. Don’t do anything until I get there.”
A pause.
“I said nothing.”
He ended the call.
Emma looked away.
Marco noticed.
“You have a question.”
“I have several.”
“Ask.”
“Will I regret knowing the answer?”
A faint smile returned.
“Probably.”
“Then I’m suddenly cured of curiosity.”
He left ten minutes later.
Emma told herself she was relieved.
She was lying.
That night, something stranger happened.
Rose refused her evening medication.
Nothing unusual there.
Emma placed the pills on the bedside table.
“Your choice.”
Rose frowned.
“You aren’t going to argue?”
“No.”
“My doctor said they’re important.”
“He did.”
“And you’re just letting me refuse?”
Emma pulled a chair beside the bed, close enough to hear without making Rose raise her voice. “I'm letting you decide. But before you decide, tell me what's worrying you.”
Rose looked at the little paper medication cup. “Those aren't the ones I took yesterday.”
“Packaging changes sometimes,” Emma said. “That's not proof of anything. It is a reason to check.”
She compared the current orders with the pharmacy labels, then called the on-call clinical service to reconcile a discrepancy in the chart. She did not guess about a pill by its color. Rose watched every step, apparently surprised to be included in a conversation about her own body.
While they waited for the callback, Emma opened the administration record to document Rose's refusal accurately. Her pen stopped above the page. Someone had already recorded that tonight's medication had been administered at 8:10 p.m.
The bedside clock read 7:54.
The entry was marked E.C.
Emma Collins.
The initials looked remarkably like hers, except for one small mistake: Emma always crossed the final stroke of her C when writing fast. Here it was a perfect curve.
Rose leaned closer. “What's wrong?”
“An entry has been made under my initials for a dose I haven't given.” Emma kept her voice level. “I need to preserve this record and report it. For your safety and mine.”
The pharmacy called back. Emma put the clinician on speaker with Rose's permission. Together they clarified the current instructions and arranged an in-person review in the morning. Rose chose to wait for that review rather than accept a dose from an unresolved chart. Emma documented the decision and the telephone consultation on a separate dated note.
When Emma photographed the questionable entry for the clinical supervisor, the bedroom door opened. Marco stood there without his jacket. His eyes moved from Rose's untouched medication to Emma's phone.
“Is she all right?” he asked.
“She's speaking for herself,” Emma replied.
Rose lifted her chin. “Someone says I swallowed pills I haven't swallowed yet.”
Marco crossed to the bedside. He didn't demand the chart or touch the medication. He looked at his grandmother instead. “What do you want me to do?”
“Find out who thinks I'm too old to notice a lie.”
Emma checked the date on the record again. Beneath her false initials was a printed note authorizing a capacity assessment for nine the next morning. The request had been placed earlier that afternoon. Its contact person was a name Emma recognized from the household payroll folder.
Julian Bellini.
Marco's cousin. The man who controlled the mansion's accounts.
Rose read over Emma's shoulder, and her fingers closed slowly around the blanket.
May you like
“I never requested that assessment,” she said.
From somewhere downstairs came the sound of the black iron gate opening.
