She also noticed that Isabella quickly turned toward the window, as if embarrassed by the expression on her own face.
Neither woman mentioned it.
***
By noon, Elena had finished cleaning the ballroom.
She was preparing to leave when she noticed something beside the piano.
A sheet of music.
It was old and slightly yellowed at the edges. Someone had written notes in the margins using a blue pen.
Elena recognized the melody.
Her mother used to play it.
She leaned forward, studying the notes.
"Do you play?"
Isabella's voice startled her.
Elena turned.
"A little."
"Everyone says that."
"Then everyone is probably lying."
Isabella looked at her.
"Sit."
Elena hesitated.
"Miss?"
"Sit down."
Elena placed the mop against the wall and approached the piano.
She sat on the bench carefully.
Her fingers hovered above the keys.
"I haven't played in years."
"Then you won't be very good."
Elena laughed softly.
"You're quite direct."
"People become direct when nobody expects anything from them."
Elena looked at the young woman.
There was something bitter in that sentence.
She began to play.
The melody was simple. A quiet composition that moved slowly between minor and major notes.
For a few seconds, the ballroom seemed to change.
Isabella watched Elena's fingers.
Her expression shifted.
"Where did you learn that?"
"My mother taught me."
"What's it called?"
"I don't know. She never told me."
Isabella looked down.
"My mother used to play it."
Elena stopped.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
Silence followed.
Then Isabella reached toward the piano.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
She touched one of the keys.
A single note sounded.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Elena did not speak.
She simply waited.
Finally, Isabella whispered:
"She used to play it when I couldn't sleep."
Elena gently moved away from the keys.
"Would you like me to play it again?"
Isabella nodded.
And Elena played until the housekeeper came looking for her.
***
Vittorio Moretti returned home that afternoon.
His black Mercedes entered through the iron gates shortly after four. Two security vehicles followed behind it.
He stepped out wearing a charcoal suit, a white shirt, and a watch worth more than most people's houses.
His bodyguard, Marco, approached.
"Everything is secure, sir."
"Any problems?"
"None."
"Where is my daughter?"
"In the ballroom."
Vittorio glanced toward the windows.
"Has she eaten?"
"Not yet."
His expression hardened.
"Again?"
Marco said nothing.
Vittorio walked through the entrance.
He had been in meetings since dawn. A shipment had disappeared from one of his warehouses, a business partner had begun negotiating with a rival family, and one of his trusted men had failed to answer three calls.
He was in no mood for complications.
But as he approached the ballroom, he heard music.
Piano music.
He stopped.
For five years, nobody had played that instrument.
He pushed the doors open.
And froze.
A young maid was sitting at the piano.
His daughter was beside her.
And Isabella was smiling.
Not the polite expression she sometimes offered doctors.
Not the empty movement of her lips when someone asked whether she was comfortable.
She was actually smiling.
Vittorio stood motionless.
The maid did not notice him immediately.
She finished the melody, then turned toward Isabella.
"Your turn."
Isabella shook her head.
"I can't."
"You can press one key."
"I haven't played in five years."
"Then today is a good day to start again."
Elena moved the wheelchair slightly closer to the piano.
Isabella looked at the keys.
Her right hand rose.
It trembled.
Then she pressed one.
A soft note filled the room.
Elena smiled.
"See?"
Isabella laughed.
A real laugh.
The sound struck Vittorio harder than any bullet he had ever heard.
"Who gave you permission to touch that piano?"
His voice was quiet.
But the room went silent.
Elena immediately stood.
"Sir, I apologize. I was only—"
"Leave."
Isabella turned.
"Father."
Vittorio looked at her.
"Isabella, I said leave."
"She was helping me."
"I didn't ask."
"She didn't do anything wrong."
Vittorio's eyes moved between the two women.
He had spent five years watching his daughter withdraw from the world. Now, after a single morning with a stranger, she was defending someone.
It should have made him happy.
Instead, it frightened him.
"Marco," he called.
The bodyguard appeared at the doorway.
"Escort the maid out."
Elena lowered her head.
"Yes, sir."
But as she walked toward the door, Isabella spoke again.
"Father, if she leaves, I won't play tomorrow."
Vittorio stopped.
He turned slowly.
"Don't threaten me, Isabella."
"I'm not threatening you."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Finally telling you what I want."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Vittorio looked at his daughter.
For a moment, he saw the little girl who used to run through the gardens with muddy shoes and a ribbon in her hair.
Then he looked at Elena.
"What's your name?"
"Elena Rossi, sir."
"How long have you worked here?"
"Today is my first day."
Vittorio nodded.
"Then perhaps you should learn the rules before you decide which ones to break."
He walked out.
But he did not order Elena to leave.
***
That evening, Vittorio sat alone in his private office.
A glass of whiskey rested beside a stack of documents.
Marco stood near the door.
"Tell me about the new maid."
"Elena Rossi. Twenty-six. Previously employed at a hotel in Milan. Her references are clean."
"Family?"
"One younger brother. Matteo Rossi. He has been receiving treatment at a private hospital."
Vittorio looked up.
"Why?"
"Complications from a congenital heart condition. The family has struggled with the medical expenses."
"How much does she owe?"
Marco gave him a figure.