Chapter 2 - The Conservatory
Three mornings later, Emilio had moved to the conservatory, the only room in Corsaro House where the air seemed to come from somewhere real. Glass walls surrounded ferns, citrus trees, and orchids. Sunlight touched his face differently there.
Less like a patient.
More like a living man.
Etta noticed something else.
He had stopped asking her to stay.
That mattered.
The next person who entered did not notice Emilio’s color.
His younger brother Rafe came carrying temporary authorization papers and two attorneys.
Rafe Corsaro wore an immaculate charcoal suit that smelled of dry cleaning and expensive scotch. He dropped a heavy leather briefcase onto a wrought-iron table near a towering fiddle-leaf fig.
“Emilio,” Rafe said, not waiting for an invitation to sit. “The shipping docks in Gretna are bleeding containers. Union reps are walking out by Friday if we don't sign off on the new security riders. I need your signature on the master ledger.”
Emilio didn't look up from a small ceramic pot where he was gently brushing soil away from an orchid root. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising beneath his linen shirt with a faint, rattling sound.
“Sign it yourself, Rafe,” Emilio said quietly.
“My signature doesn't hold the charter bonds, and you know it. The port authority requires primary verification.” Rafe leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he studied his older brother's pale skin. “You look worse today. Have you seen Prentiss?”
“Prentiss is an expensive decorator who prescribes sleeping pills,” Emilio replied.
“Prentiss keeps you alive long enough for us to keep the family intact,” Rafe countered sharply. He glanced across the conservatory floor where Etta was quietly wiping down the baseboards near a cluster of ferns, her bucket clinking softly against the tile. “What is she still doing in here? I thought we cleared the domestic staff from the private wings during business hours.”
Etta did not look up, nor did she change the rhythm of her cloth.
Emilio paused, his thumb resting against the green stem of an orchid.
“She works where I tell her to work, Rafe.”
“She’s a maid, Emilio. Not a nurse. If you need someone to manage your medical schedule, hire a professional from Uptown, not someone who smells like bleach and orange peels.”
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the damp, rich smell of wet earth and growing things.
Emilio slowly raised his head. The look in his eyes made Rafe instinctively shift back in his chair, despite the years of corporate battles they had fought side by side.
“Leave the papers on the desk,” Emilio said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, flat whisper. “And leave the room.”
Rafe pressed his lips into a thin line, snatched a pen from his breast pocket, and tossed it onto the ledger. “You’re throwing everything away over a dying empire, Emilio. Father would have put a bullet through the wall just listening to you talk like this.”
“Father is dead,” Emilio said. “And so are you, if you don't walk out that door right now.”
Rafe stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and stormed out, slamming the glass door hard enough to rattle the hanging ivy.
When the heavy footsteps faded down the marble hallway, Emilio exhaled slowly.
Etta dipped her rag into the bucket, wringing it out until the water ran clear.
“You shouldn't fight with him,” she said softly.
“Why?”
May you like
“Because he has lawyers and you have an orchid.”
Emilio stared at her for a long moment, then a ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was the first real smile Etta had seen on his face in nineteen months.
