A Empregada Que Avisou o Patrão — E Revelou o Segredo Mais Sombrio da Mansão Morelli

III. The Reception

The opportunity to speak came during a party.

The Morelli mansion was hosting a reception for politicians, businessmen, and directors of Rio's cultural institutions. The gardens were illuminated by tiny golden lights. Inside the house, a quartet played instrumental bossa nova, soft enough not to disrupt negotiations disguised as casual conversation.

The crystal chandeliers scattered brilliance over champagne flutes. Women laughed softly. Men shook hands over promises they didn't utter aloud. The scent of wine, white flowers, and expensive perfume filled the rooms.

Alexandre stood near the main hallway, talking with two investors. At thirty-five, he was a handsome man in a distant sort of way. Dark suit, impeccable posture, weary eyes. Anyone looking from the outside would say he had everything. Anyone paying close attention would notice he looked like he lived in a house where he had never felt at home.

Sofia passed by with a tray of glasses. She saw Viktor across the room. Alexandre’s uncle. Elegant. Graying hair. Controlled smile. The gaze of someone who always knew exactly where everyone was.

Sofia felt her heart accelerate. If she didn't speak tonight, she might never find the courage again. She approached Alexandre. "Sir."

He turned, surprised. "Yes?" Sofia gripped the tray tightly. Her hands were shaking. "I need to speak with you." "Is there a problem with the service?"

She looked around. Viktor was talking near the fireplace, but for a split second, his eyes seemed to lock onto hers. Sofia lowered her voice. "Your mother is alive."

The world didn't stop. The music kept playing. The glasses kept clinking. The guests kept smiling. But for Alexandre, everything vanished. "What?" His voice barely made a sound.

Sofia swallowed hard. "She is alive, sir." Alexandre’s face hardened. "My mother died ten years ago." "She didn't die." "Do you know what you are saying?" "I do." She pointed discreetly toward the hallway. "Open that door."

Alexandre looked at the dark door at the end of the hall. He felt a chill run up his spine. "Who told you to say this?" "No one." "Then why?"

Sofia took a breath. "Because every night, I hear someone crying inside there." Alexandre stood frozen. "That is impossible." "One night, I left food near the door." "Sofia—" "Someone took it."

He didn't answer. She continued, her voice even lower: "And then they left a note asking if you were still alive."

The words struck Alexandre like a blow to the chest. For a second, an ancient memory flashed back. Him as a child, burning with fever. His mother sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hand running through his hair. Her voice singing a specific melody, a song she said she had learned from her grandmother from Bahia.

A few weeks prior, late at night, Alexandre thought he had heard that exact same melody in the hallway. He had told himself it was just a memory. Grief playing tricks on him. Now, he was no longer sure of anything.