The grand hall was bathed in the flickering amber light of the twin fireplaces. Lorenzo sat in an ornate high-backed leather chair near the hearth, sipping bourbon, while two of his armed captains, Marco and Silvio, stood flanking the doorway like twin gargoyles.

The heavy oak doors were shoved open. Mrs. Gable dragged Nora into the center of the hall, hurling her down onto the cold stone floor.

Nora cried out as her knees struck the marble. She rolled onto her side, desperately tucking her body inward to shield her swollen abdomen from the impact. The shards of broken crystal spilled across the floor between her hands.

"Mr. Moretti!" Mrs. Gable wailed with theatrical distress, dabbing her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Forgive the disturbance, sir, but I had to bring this matter to you immediately! This girl—this wretched stray we took in out of charity—has stolen and destroyed your great-grandfather’s Venetian chalice! We found the pieces hidden on her person!"

Lorenzo didn't move. He swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler, his gray eyes locking onto Nora’s curled, trembling form on the floor.

"Is this true?" Lorenzo’s voice was dangerously quiet, vibrating with an edge that usually preceded an execution.

"No, sir... please," Nora wept, struggling to sit up while supporting her stomach. "I didn't touch it. I swear to God, I never touched that cabinet. I don't know how it got in my apron."

"Liar!" Mrs. Gable shrieked. "She's a congenital liar and a thief! Look at her, Mr. Moretti! Unmarried, pregnant, desperate for cash to pay off some street thug’s debts! She thinks because she’s breeding she can do whatever she pleases!"

Stepping forward, Mrs. Gable raised her manicured hand, palm open, intending to strike Nora across the face to prove her absolute authority before the Master.

"I will teach you some respect, you filthy little—"

"ENOUGH."

The word didn't come from Lorenzo.

It didn't come from Marco or Silvio.

The voice was rough, gravelly, and ancient, like grinding granite and rusted iron scraping together after decades in the dark. It tore through the cavernous room with the percussive shock of a thunderclap.

Mrs. Gable froze mid-swing, her arm hovering in the air.

Lorenzo dropped his glass. The crystal shattered on the stone, dark bourbon splashing across his leather shoes as he rose to his feet in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

At the far archway of the grand hall stood the rusted wheelchair.

And standing out of it—his trembling, skeletal hands gripping the carved mahogany doorframe for balance, his silver hair catching the firelight—was Giovanni Moretti.