Vittorio returned to his whiskey.
"Interesting."
"Should I have her investigated further?"
"Yes."
Marco hesitated.
"Sir, may I ask something?"
Vittorio looked at him.
"Why did you let her stay?"
Vittorio glanced toward the dark window.
"Because my daughter asked me to."
It was the simplest answer.
And perhaps the most difficult one.
***
Elena's second morning began with a surprise.
When she entered the ballroom, Isabella was already waiting beside the piano.
"You came back."
Elena smiled.
"I work here, miss."
"Don't call me miss."
"Then what should I call you?"
"Isabella."
"That might get me fired."
Isabella shrugged.
"Then I'll hire you again."
Elena laughed.
She brought a small notebook from her apron.
"I thought we could try something."
"What?"
"Music."
Isabella looked at the piano.
"I don't know if I can."
"You don't have to know. We can start with one note."
Elena placed the notebook on the piano.
Inside were several simple exercises.
Isabella studied them.
"You made these?"
"Last night."
"Why?"
Elena paused.
"Because I think you deserve to enjoy something again."
Isabella looked away.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she reached toward the keyboard.
They spent the next hour practicing.
Isabella's fingers were weak, and she struggled to coordinate them. Several times she became frustrated and pushed the keys too hard.
Once, she stopped altogether.
"I can't do this."
Elena pulled the bench slightly closer.
"Do you know what my brother used to say when he couldn't solve a difficult problem?"
Isabella shook her head.
"He said the problem wasn't impossible. He was simply looking at it from the wrong side."
"How old is your brother?"
"Seventeen."
"Does he play?"
"No. He thinks music is boring."
Isabella smiled.
"Then he has terrible taste."
"Absolutely."
They laughed.
Neither noticed the man standing outside the ballroom.
Vittorio had arrived early.
He watched through the partially open door.
He saw his daughter leaning toward the piano. He saw Elena correcting her hand position without making her feel helpless.
Most importantly, he saw Isabella looking at someone without fear.
For the first time in years, Vittorio wondered whether the house he had built to protect his daughter had become the very thing keeping her imprisoned.
***
The first person to object was Mrs. Conti.
She found Elena in the laundry room that afternoon.
"You are becoming too familiar with Miss Isabella."
Elena folded a white shirt.
"I am only helping her practice."
"That is not your responsibility."
"She asked me."
"She is not well."
Elena stopped folding.
"She seems perfectly capable of telling me what she wants."
Mrs. Conti's eyes narrowed.
"You don't understand this household."
"Perhaps not."
"Then listen carefully. The master does not like people interfering with his daughter's life."
Elena looked at her.
"Does Miss Isabella have any friends?"
Mrs. Conti said nothing.
"Does she ever leave the house?"
No answer.
"Does anyone take her to the garden?"
"Enough."
Elena lowered her voice.
"She's twenty-four years old. She deserves to make decisions about her own life."
Mrs. Conti stepped closer.
"You think you're helping her. But you have no idea what happened here."
"Then perhaps someone should tell me."
Mrs. Conti stared at her.
For a moment, something resembling fear appeared in her eyes.
"Stay away from the past, Elena."
Then she left.
Elena stood alone.
She had no idea why a simple piano lesson could frighten an entire household.
But she was beginning to understand that the Moretti mansion contained secrets far more dangerous than its owner.
***
Three days later, Elena discovered the first one.
She was cleaning a storage room near the east wing when she found an old cardboard box.
It contained photographs, medical documents, and several newspaper clippings.
One photograph showed Vittorio standing beside a beautiful woman.
His wife.
Beside them stood a young Isabella, smiling with both hands resting on her mother's shoulders.
Elena turned the photograph over.
A handwritten message appeared on the back.
For my two greatest loves. May music always bring us home.
She placed it carefully back into the box.
Then she noticed the medical documents.
They were dated five years earlier.
The first pages described Isabella's spinal injury.
The later pages contained something else.
A report from a rehabilitation specialist.
Elena read it twice.
According to the document, Isabella had shown measurable improvement in her lower-body neurological responses during the months following the accident.
There was also a recommendation for a specialized rehabilitation program.
The program had been discontinued.
The reason was listed as a decision by the patient's legal guardian.
Vittorio Moretti.
Elena frowned.
Why would a father discontinue treatment when his daughter was improving?
She continued reading.
Another document appeared beneath the report.
It was a letter from the specialist.
The final paragraph had been underlined.
"Further rehabilitation may improve the patient's mobility. However, continued psychological support and patient cooperation are essential. The family should avoid creating an environment in which the patient feels permanently dependent."
Elena stared at the words.
Permanently dependent.
She placed the documents back inside the box.
Then she heard footsteps.
"Miss Rossi?"
She turned.
Marco stood in the doorway.
His expression was unreadable.
"What are you doing here?"
"Cleaning, sir."
His eyes moved toward the box.
"That room is not part of your assignment."
"I'm sorry. Mrs. Conti asked me to organize the storage shelves."
Marco stepped inside.
"Leave everything exactly as you found it."
Elena nodded.
But she could not forget what she had read.
***
That evening, she found Isabella alone in the garden.
The young woman sat beneath a stone arch covered with climbing roses.
The lake glittered in the distance.