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

IV. The Door

Alexandre walked toward the hallway. Sofia followed behind him, still holding her tray.

The music seemed more distant with every step. The glow of the party faded as they entered the old wing of the mansion. The hallway was cold. The walls held portraits of Morelli women dead for decades. At the end, the locked door waited.

Alexandre stopped in front of it. His hand shook as he touched the doorknob. Locked. As always.

He turned to Sofia. "Do you have the key?" She shook her head. "No."

Behind them, a voice rose. "Alexandre." Viktor stood at the beginning of the hallway. His smile was completely gone. "Step away from that door."

Alexandre glared at his uncle. "What is inside here?" "Painful memories." "Liar."

Viktor took a step forward. "You are making a fool of yourself in front of the servants." "Then give me the key." "No." The answer came too quickly.

Alexandre felt something break. Not inside the door. Inside himself.

For ten years, he had obeyed the silence. For ten years, he had accepted their versions of the truth. For ten years, he had looked at that door the way one looks at a wound they lack the courage to touch. Tonight, it was over.

He called two security guards over. "Open it." Viktor shouted: "You don't have the right!"

Alexandre turned slowly. "This is my house."

The guards hesitated, but they obeyed. One of them brought a tool. The metal ground against the lock. Sofia held her breath. Viktor lost all his color.

The lock gave way with a sharp snap. The door swung open. A stale smell drifted out. Mold. Medicine. Musty linens. Air that hadn't been breathed in years.

The room was nearly dark. Heavy curtains blocked the windows. There was a narrow bed. A chair near the window. A small table with empty plates. And sitting in the chair, there was a woman.

Exceedingly thin. Long gray hair. A pale face. Slender hands resting in her lap.

For a moment, Alexandre couldn't move. The woman raised her eyes. Eyes he had known before he even knew his own face. "Alexandre...?" she whispered.

The name cut through ten years like a knife and a blessing all at once. Alexandre took a step forward. Then another. "Mother?"

Cecília Morelli began to cry. Not loudly. Not with strength. She wept like someone who had already cried so much that even her tears had learned to fall slowly.

Alexandre fell to his knees before her. The woman touched his face with a trembling hand. "I thought I would never see you again." He pressed her hand against his skin. "They told me you died."

Cecília closed her eyes. "I know."