by Blake Pierce
She could drive to the local coffee shop and do her research there. Contacting the relevant authorities would be the best and most effective way to help these children.
Feeling motivated by her decision and relieved to be taking positive action, Cassie grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
As she climbed into her car, she realized that this would be the first time she had left the grounds since arriving, and it brought home to her how isolated the children were. With a driver ferrying them to and from school, who was in Ms. Rossi’s pay and clearly loyal to her, their lives seemed bleak and restricted. Where were the play dates, the outings, friends coming round, or even being allowed to go for a walk around the neighborhood?
Surely in the light of day, it was a safe and friendly place? It had certainly seemed so when she had arrived. In fact, she’d been eager to take a walk down the scenic, tree-lined avenues and had assumed this would be something she’d be doing with the children if she got the job. She remembered there was a small park a couple of blocks away, well kept, with black wrought-iron fencing, neatly trimmed grass, and paved pathways. She’d noticed some play equipment—a seesaw and a set of swings. Were they never allowed to go there and have fun?
As Cassie drove up to the gate she stopped, looking in concern at the black Ford sedan that was parked in the driveway outside. Suddenly, all her worries about safety rushed back. Was it possible that criminals could watch a house so blatantly, in broad daylight? What would she do if the visitors claimed to be contractors repairing the stove, or here to read the water meter? Would she let them in?
Cassie decided she would go to the gate and ask. With the tall, steel-barred structure between herself and them, she would hopefully be safe enough.
She climbed out of her car, hesitating as the sedan’s door opened.
To Cassie’s relief, a woman with long, highlighted blond hair emerged from the car.
She looked to be about thirty years old, and was much better dressed than Cassie, and she seemed annoyed.
The woman stomped up to the gate.
“Hello,” she said loudly in a plummy English accent. “I wonder if you can tell Maurice I’m waiting. He asked me to come through to the house this morning, and I’ve just realized I only have the office number. Or does the intercom ring through to the home office?”
“Maurice is not here,” Cassie told her. “He and Ms. Rossi left about twenty minutes ago. I don’t know where they were going.”
She didn’t know why, but this woman seemed familiar.
The blond let out an irritated huff of air.
“Seriously? He’s not here? But he told me yesterday to come here any time before ten a.m. to collect my tax certificate and the laptop bag I loaned him. He specifically said he’d be at the house.”
“He didn’t mention you were stopping by,” Cassie said, but then her confused brain put two and two together. “Wait. I think I’ve spoken to you before. Are you by any chance Abigail?”
The blond woman’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up.
“Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“You were the person who answered my call when I responded to the job, and told me that the position was taken. Later, you phoned me back to say it was still available.” Cassie lowered her voice. “Then I heard Ms. Rossi firing you on the phone. Or am I wrong?”
“Oh. Yes, I remember now. And you are so not wrong.”
Abigail seemed delighted to find a listening ear.
“I know you’re employed by her and all, but let me tell you, that woman is a witch. She’s completely psychotic. She’s aggressive and unreasonable and you never, ever know where you stand with her. One minute you’re her trusted righthand person and marketing assistant, and so very valued. The next minute you’re fired over something you knew nothing about.”
Abigail ran her hands through her hair in a frustrated gesture.
“I mean, it wasn’t even my fault! I literally didn’t know about those ads. I just happened to answer the phone because Maurice was busy on another call. He told me what to say, so it was his slip-up, not mine.”
“Seriously?” Cassie asked, concerned.
“Maurice is her blue-eyed boy, though. He puts up with all her tantrums. He’s not even a Rossi employee, but hired by her personally.”
“But she’s the owner, isn’t she?” Cassie said.
“Yes, she’s the owner, but since they restructured, the board of directors has taken on most of the responsibility for the company’s running. In my opinion, they did that so that she can’t keep making idiotic decisions that damage the brand. Apart from firing me, of course. Unfortunately that was within her scope as she’s still in charge of the marketing team. Otherwise, her main duties are to attend the meetings and corporate functions and do the model calls. Tell girls they’re ugly and no good to represent her products. She seems to like doing that.”
Cassie stared at Abigail, horrified.
“This is terrible,” she said.
“News to you?” Abigail sounded cynical.
“No. Not at all.” Cassie stepped closer. “I’ve also been fired. I’m only here until tomorrow. But I have seen how she treats her children and I’m desperately worried about leaving them. She’s an abusive parent. The way she punishes them is totally overboard and sadistic, for things that aren’t even their fault.”
Abigail frowned.
“That’s appalling. Being toxic at work is one thing, but mistreating your own children is another. Are you going to call the police? What do you plan to do?”
Cassie hesitated. She hoped that sharing her plans with the disgruntled marketing assistant wouldn’t end up backfiring on her. But she had to trust somebody, and there seemed to be no reason for Abigail to snitch on her to Ms. Rossi.
“I thought I would report her to the child protection authorities before I go. I’ll ask them if they can investigate.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Abigail agreed.
“I was on my way to find a coffee shop and do some research. I’m not sure what department deals with this here, or where they are based.”
“I might be able to help you there,” Abigail said. She reached into the car and took out her purse, rummaging through it until she found her phone. “We have a social media page for the expats living in our area, and details like this are available online. I’m sure I remember children being on the list. There’s definitely fire and garbage removal and police. Let me look.”
She scrolled through her phone while Cassie waited eagerly. Abigail’s arrival was proving to be a stroke of luck that would hopefully allow her to help the children in the remaining time she had.
“Here you are. This seems to be the one. What’s your number?”
Cassie read it out and Abigail messaged the details to her.
“Well, good luck,” Abigail said. “I’d better head to the office now and see if I can track Maurice down. Hopefully he’ll be there at some stage this morning.”
“I hope you manage to find him,” Cassie said. “Please don’t mention you spoke to me at all.”
“I won’t say a word.”
Abigail climbed back into her car and drove off.
Cassie entered the address into her phone and mapped out her route. The Rossi home was located south of Milan and the Social Services offices were close to the city center. She guessed it would take her at least half an hour to drive there. She set off hurriedly, unsure of how this process would work, but expecting that she might have to wait in line when she arrived.
Cassie wished she’d been able to take photos or even film the dreadful abuse that she’d witnessed last night. But as soon as she’d realized that the horror was ongoing, she had rushed to help Venetia and hadn’t thought about recording it. Filming might have allowed her to collect valuable evidence—but every moment’s delay would have meant more pain for the young girl. Plus, the scene had played out all the way across the courtyard and in poor light. She wasn’t sure that her
cheap, low-spec phone would have taken usable footage.
She would just have to do her best and describe the incident as she had witnessed it. If they investigated promptly they would find that the bruises on Venetia’s back matched up with her description of what had occurred.
As she zigzagged her way into the town center, Cassie got more and more nervous. She hoped that she’d be able to report this anonymously and that they wouldn’t ask her for her personal details. She wondered when they would schedule their visit to the home, and hoped that it wouldn’t be today. Ms. Rossi would know instantly who had filed the complaint, so she didn’t want to be there when the authorities arrived.
Cassie gripped the wheel, trying to reassure herself that nothing would go wrong, and that her last-ditch attempt at saving the children would not backfire horribly on her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Despite the risks, Cassie was committed to making the report at Social Services. She knew she would have to do her utmost to make sure they took it seriously. The children would suffer terribly if this level of abuse continued, and over time, their personalities might be warped into the same dreadful mold. They would lose any hope of leading a happy, normal life, or even having a childhood. Instead, they would be forced, through fear and torment, into becoming replicas of their mother.
Cassie felt cold when she thought of these girls one day treating their children the same way because it was the only way they knew, and they had been conditioned into a cycle of cruelty.
As she drove into town, Cassie comforted herself by imagining the children, in a better life, driving with her. This was what her role should have included all along. She should have been riding around with them all over the place—for a haircut, clothes shopping, to visit friends, or even for a special treat to see one of the city’s sights.
The whole of Milan was a visual feast. She supposed that Nina and Venetia would consider it normal, having grown up in it, but she was constantly amazed by the history and culture evident in every twist and turn of the road. The majestic buildings in shades of earth and stone, with filigree spires stretching into the mist. The ornate windows decorated with colorful brickwork. The stone gargoyles and statues, each one a unique work of art.
Here she was. To her relief, she recognized the distinctive stone building with its elaborate windows and balconies from the photo on the map. It impressed her as an imposing and historic structure, and she guessed that in a city where style and architecture were celebrated, even the mundane local services were housed in beauty.
After a hunt for parking, she found a narrow space a few streets down. Squeezing her car into it, she hurried back to the main entrance. She paused outside, shivering in the chilly morning air while she gathered her thoughts.
She had to come across as calm, responsible, and credible. Giving an incoherent report, or becoming emotional, would let the children down and this might affect their lives forever.
Once she was sure she had her thoughts in order, Cassie headed inside.
“I need child protection services, please,” she asked the receptionist at the front desk. “I am here to report a case of abuse.”
“Address? What part of Milan?” the receptionist asked.
Cassie looked up the home’s address on her phone and read it out in full.
The receptionist tapped some buttons on her phone and spoke rapidly in Italian before turning back to Cassie.
“Please take a seat. We are busy today so there will be a short wait.”
Her English was strongly accented, and she looked tired and world-weary, as if she’d seen too many cases of the kind Cassie was describing.
Cassie took a seat on one of the hard benches. The large waiting room was cool, and smelled of old dust overlaid with floor polish. She was starting to worry how long this would take, especially since every other person who arrived seemed to have been given a number. Periodically, the numbers were called out over a loudspeaker and flashed up onto a screen.
She hadn’t been allocated one, and didn’t know why, but guessed it might be because of the nature of her complaint. The other people waiting might be in line for routine services, while reporting abuse was more serious. Or had the receptionist made a mistake? Cassie checked the time on her phone and decided if she sat for longer than half an hour, she’d go back to the receptionist and ask again. She needed to be home before Nonna arrived, or Ms. Rossi would be angry and start asking questions about where she’d been.
The notices on the wall were all in Italian, and Cassie spent some time trying to work out what they said. She realized that thanks to the books she’d bought, she could already understand some of the basic phrases, and wondered how much longer it would take to reach a standard where she could be hired as a waitress. From tomorrow she would be unemployed, and would need to find lodgings and another job. First, she planned to drive to Bellagio, so she could discover the truth about her sister.
Cassie’s thoughts strayed to Jacqui and she found herself wondering what would have happened if anybody had reported her father to the authorities when the two of them were younger.
She doubted they would have been removed from his care, because the system was so overloaded. With no other close relatives, she guessed social services would have deemed one parent to be better than none, especially since he was capable of holding down a job from time to time. Most probably, someone would have visited the house on a regular basis to ensure that she and Jacqui were being cared for adequately, that they were not being hit, that there was food available and that they were being sent to school.
Cassie didn’t know how big a difference it would have made, but knowing that someone was checking up at random intervals might have curbed her father’s more violent behavior, and also the abuse inflicted by his dreadful girlfriends. Or so she hoped.
What would happen to the Rossi family in this different society?
There was a father in the picture, even though he wasn’t around. The children had been told what Cassie suspected were terrible lies about him, but they had said he was a kind person. Would the father’s custody be an option for these girls? Or would the social workers prefer that the children stayed with their mother, while they supervised the situation at home?
Cassie worried that Ms. Rossi would be able to continue hiding what she did. Bruises under clothing couldn’t be seen, and depriving a child of food wasn’t something that a social worker would know about unless he or she was told.
Physical examinations could be done to check for bruising, but other punishments might go undetected because the children would be too scared to disclose them. Before she left, she would need to spend some time alone with Nina and Venetia, and explain to them the importance of trusting the social worker.
If they were too afraid to cooperate, Cassie wondered what other organizations could assist. She guessed her only other port of call would be the police.
“Miss Cassie Vale?”
A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
Cassie looked up to see a short, slim, dark-haired official waiting in front of her. He was holding a clipboard, and had a security card on a lanyard round his neck.
“Miss Vale, I am the Social Services department manager, Mr. Dellucci. Please, come this way.”
Encouraged that the manager himself was handling her case, Cassie jumped up from the hard bench and followed Mr. Dellucci through the reception area, down a corridor, and into what she guessed was his office. It was cramped and cluttered and overly full. Ranks of shelves were stacked with lever-arch files and cardboard folders, while certificates and printed notices jostled for space on the walls.
“Please sit down.”
He walked to the other side of his compact desk and took out a tape recorder and notepad.
“You are here to report a case of child abuse?”
“That’s right,” Cassie said.
“The receptionist gave me the address. Is this correct?”
He repeated
it and she nodded confirmation.
“What is your name, date of birth, and passport number? Please write it down for me here, at the top of this page.”
He passed her the paper.
“Naturally it will remain confidential but we require it for reporting purposes.”
Cassie took her passport out of the bag and copied the number, before writing down the other details. She didn’t feel comfortable doing it, but had no choice.
“Thank you. Now, please tell me the name of the family involved?”
“Rossi,” Cassie said hesitantly.
She knew it was a famous name and feared the manager’s reaction, but he simply nodded, remaining expressionless.
“Please describe to me, in detail, what you have witnessed.”
“Well, it involves both the children. They’re girls, aged eight and nine, Venetia and Nina. Their mother was divorced a few months ago and I get the impression that the abuse has escalated since then.”
Cassie stopped herself, realizing her palms were damp. This was supposition. She must stick to facts.
“I have observed one of the children being forced to go without food for an entire day. I have also witnessed one of the children being confined to a small, cold annex room for an entire day. I have heard one of the children being verbally abused after making a mistake, in a way that is likely to cause severe psychological damage. And I have seen one of the children being forced to hold a water glass out in front of her, and being violently whipped across her back with a belt whenever the water spilled.”
Cassie found herself replaying these macabre scenes in her mind as she related the punishments to the manager. She could hear how her own voice shook—partly because she was nervous, but also because the flood of memories filled her with horror all over again.
“And who was the person or people committing this abuse?” he asked, his tone serious.
