Chapter Twelve
The sterile quiet of Evelyn's hospital room was shattered by the insistent buzzing of her phone on the bedside table. Reaching for it gingerly, wincing at the dull throb in her head, she saw the caller ID: "Mrs. Henderson." Her landlady. A wave of anxiety washed over her, eclipsing the lingering effects of the concussion.
Swallowing hard, she answered the call. "Hello, Mrs. Henderson?"
"Evelyn, dear? How are you feeling?" Her landlady's voice, usually brisk, held a note of concern. Evelyn had informed her about the accident through a brief text message the previous day.
"I'm… recovering, thank you," Evelyn replied, trying to sound stronger than she felt.
"That's good to hear, dear. Now, about the rent…" Mrs. Henderson's tone shifted back to its usual businesslike edge. "It was due last week, you know. I haven't seen it come through."
Evelyn's stomach plummeted. In the chaos of her investigation and the subsequent accident, her rent had completely slipped her mind. Her funds were dwindling, carefully allocated for her undercover operation, not for unexpected hospital stays and missed work.
"Oh, Mrs. Henderson, I am so sorry," Evelyn stammered, her voice laced with embarrassment. "With the… accident, I haven't been able to get to the bank. I can assure you, I'll get it to you as soon as I'm discharged."
There was a brief silence on the other end. "Well, dear, I understand, but I have my own bills to pay. Perhaps a friend could drop it off for you?"
Evelyn's cheeks flushed. She didn't have any friends in Little Italy she could ask for such a favor. Her carefully constructed persona as a lone researcher hadn't allowed for close connections.
"I… I don't really have anyone here who could do that," she admitted quietly.
Unbeknownst to Evelyn, Sandro, who had been a silent presence in the corner of her room, seemingly engrossed in a newspaper, had gone still. His sharp ears had picked up the thread of her conversation. He lowered the paper slightly, his dark eyes now fixed on her with a curious intensity.
Mrs. Henderson sighed audibly. "Well, Evelyn, I need that rent. Let me know when you can sort it out." The line went dead.
Evelyn hung up the phone, a knot of worry tightening in her chest. The last thing she needed right now was to be facing eviction on top of everything else. She rubbed her temples, a wave of dizziness washing over her.
Sandro finally lowered his newspaper completely, his gaze direct. "Rent?" he inquired, his voice deceptively casual.
Evelyn's head snapped up, her cheeks flushing again. She hadn't realized he was listening. "It's… nothing," she mumbled, trying to dismiss the conversation. "Just a minor oversight."
Sandro's expression remained impassive, but there was a keen intelligence in his eyes that told Evelyn he had heard more than she intended. "An oversight that is causing you distress," he observed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Evelyn avoided his gaze, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and resentment. She didn't want his pity, his help. It would create an obligation she didn't want to have.
"It's being taken care of," she insisted, her voice firmer this time.
Sandro remained silent for a long moment, studying her. Then, he spoke, his voice low and even. "Signorina Rossi, you are in no condition to be worrying about such matters. Allow me."
Evelyn's eyes widened in surprise and a flicker of alarm. "Allow you to do what?"
"Allow me to ensure your… oversight is rectified," Sandro stated, his gaze unwavering. "Consider it… a gesture of goodwill."
Evelyn stared at him, her mind reeling. Was this another attempt to exert control? A way to further entangle her in his web? Or was it, as he claimed, a simple act of unexpected generosity? She didn't trust him, but the thought of her precarious financial situation was a heavy weight