Chapter 3 - Sunshine in the Mausoleum
Three weeks later, the east wing of the Russo estate had undergone a miraculous transformation. Previously, Vincent avoided Camila’s rooms during daylight hours because they felt like a depressing mausoleum where heavy velvet curtains blocked out the sun and the air smelled perpetually of old medicine and decay. But on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, after sitting through a brutal five-hour meeting with his capos over deteriorating territory lines, Vincent retreated to the east wing simply because he needed silence. As he walked down the carpeted hallway, loosening his tie, he expected the usual heavy gloom. Instead, he heard music drifting through the air—bright, bouncy swing jazz from the 1950s.
Vincent pushed the door open and stopped dead in his tracks. Sunlight flooded the room, streaming through wide-open windows because the heavy velvet drapes had been permanently tied back. The stale smell of antiseptic was entirely gone, replaced by the crisp, clean scents of lemon and fresh lavender. Camila was laughing—not the terrified, confused laughter of her illness, but genuine, joyful happiness. Nora stood in the center of the room, holding both of Camila’s hands. The drab gray maid’s uniform was gone, replaced by faded blue jeans and an oversized green cable-knit sweater, her dark hair braided neatly down her back. "Step. Tap. Step. Tap," Nora coached cheerfully, exaggerating every dance movement. "You’ve got it, Camila! You’re a natural." "Thomas and I used to dance like this," Camila beamed, her eyes bright. "At the Copacabana club in the city." "I bet you were the best-looking couple on the dance floor," Nora smiled, giving her a gentle spin.
Vincent leaned against the doorframe, watching in quiet amazement. He hadn't slept properly in days, his mind weighed down by the constant threat of war with the Gallow syndicate, yet watching this scene made the suffocating tension in his chest begin to ease. Camila stumbled slightly, but Nora caught her with fluid grace, seamlessly turning the trip into a playful dance dip. Camila threw her head back and laughed even harder. When the song ended, Nora guided her comfortably into an armchair, tucking a soft woven blanket over her legs. "Tea time, Madam," Nora said with a theatrical bow. Camila clapped her hands like a child. Turning around, Nora finally noticed Vincent standing in the doorway. Her playful smile flickered, replaced instantly by her usual guarded expression. She straightened her sweater, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Mr. Russo. I didn't hear you come in. Is everything alright with the estate, or do I need to clean something?"
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Vincent pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the sunlit room, his dark eyes softening just a fraction. "You aren't cleaning, Nora. You're dancing." "Music is good for circulation," she replied defensively, walking over to pour hot water from an electric kettle into a porcelain teapot. "And it keeps her engaged. If you leave her staring at four walls all day, her mind locks up. Trust me, my grandmother was the same way before she passed." Vincent watched her move around the room with effortless efficiency. She wasn't intimidated by his presence, nor was she playing games like the sycophants who usually populated his estate. She spoke to him like an equal—a rare, refreshing dynamic that commanded his complete attention. "My mother hasn't laughed like that in five years," Vincent said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected depth of vulnerability. Nora paused pouring the tea, looking up to meet his intense gaze. "She’s not broken, Mr. Russo. She’s just trapped behind a wall of bad memories. You just have to know how to unlock the door."
Later that evening, as Vincent sat in his private downstairs study reviewing shipping manifests, a soft knock came at his heavy oak door. Nora entered without waiting for permission, holding a stack of daily medical logs and expense receipts. "Everything is accounted for," she said, setting the papers neatly on his desk. "And I need to requisition some watercolor paints and sketchpads for her tomorrow. Her fine motor skills are improving." Vincent looked up from his desk, leaning back in his leather chair. "Order whatever she needs, Nora. Put it on the primary account." He paused, studying her face in the lamplight. "You know, the Gallow syndicate has been making aggressive moves near our northern docks. People in my world are dangerous. Working this close to me... it puts a target on your back." Nora didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms, looking down at him with a fearless spark in her dark eyes. "Mr. Russo, I grew up in a three-bedroom apartment with four brothers and a ceiling that leaked every time it rained. I spent my teenage years juggling three jobs just to keep my family from eviction. A bunch of mobsters in expensive suits don't scare me." Vincent let out a low, genuine chuckle—a sound that rarely escaped his lips. "Remind me never to play poker with you, Nora Hayes."
