Chapter 3 - THE MAID’S CONFESSION
I stared at the crayon drawing.
Uncle Silvio.
Silvio was my right hand. He was the godfather to Valentina. He had stood beside me at Isabella’s grave and wept.
If Silvio was the one who pulled the trigger, it meant my entire empire was built on a lie. It meant the war I waged against the Mendozas was exactly what Silvio wanted—a distraction while he positioned himself to take everything.
And he had used my wife’s blood to do it.
I looked at the maid. Emily was pale, her dark eyes wide with terror, but she hadn’t run. She stood her ground in a house that had just turned into a warzone.
“Where did you get this?” I demanded, tapping the paper.
“Lucia drew it yesterday,” Emily whispered. “She hid it under her pillow. I found it when I was changing the sheets.”
I studied her. Really studied her.
She was too calm for a maid who had just heard a sniper rifle go off. She didn’t scream. She didn’t panic. She just held the drawing like it was a piece of evidence.
“Rosa hired you two weeks ago,” I said, stepping closer. “You got my traumatized daughters to laugh in fourteen days. You found this drawing. And you didn’t run when the shooting started.”
I raised my gun, pointing it at the floor but making sure she saw it.
“Who are you, Emily?”
She swallowed, taking a slow step back. “I’m a maid.”
“Bullshit.” I closed the distance between us. “You’re trained. The flour on your face, the apron—it’s a costume. You look at me the way cops look at me. The way feds look at me. Who sent you?”
Emily’s chest heaved. She looked toward the hallway, then back at me.
“Nobody sent me,” she said. Her voice dropped the subservient tone. It became sharp. Educated. “I came here on my own.”
“Why?”
She reached into her apron pocket. My grip on the pistol tightened, but she slowly pulled out a small, faded photograph. She held it out to me.
I took it.
It was a picture of two young women laughing at a graduation ceremony.
One was Emily, looking a few years younger.
The other was Isabella.
My breath caught in my throat. “You knew my wife.”
“She was my older sister,” Emily said quietly.
The kitchen felt like it was spinning. Isabella was an only child. She grew up in foster care. She had no family. That was why I protected her so fiercely.
“Isabella didn’t have a sister,” I said.
“Half-sister,” Emily corrected. “Different fathers. We were separated in the system when I was six. I didn’t find her again until three years ago.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Emily looked at me with a mixture of pity and anger. “Because you are Dominic Russo. You have enemies everywhere. She didn’t want to pull me into this life. But we met in secret. Once a month, at a diner in Brooklyn.”
Answer one: Emily wasn’t a spy for my enemies. She was family.
Open two: If Isabella kept secrets this deep, what else had she hidden?
“Fourteen months ago, she missed our lunch,” Emily continued, her voice breaking. “Then I saw the news. I knew the cartel story was a lie, Dominic. Isabella told me she was terrified of Silvio. She told me Silvio thought she was making you soft. That she was bad for business.”
I closed my eyes. The guilt was heavy enough to crush me.
“I infiltrated your staff to get my nieces out,” Emily confessed. “I was going to take them away from you. Because I thought you ordered the hit.”
I snapped my eyes open. “You thought I killed her?”
“Lucia thought it too!” Emily cried. “She heard Silvio say your name that day! ‘Dominic sends his regards.’ That’s what Silvio said before he shot her! Lucia is four years old. She didn’t understand. She just knew your name meant her mother died.”
Daddy killed Mommy.
It all made terrible, devastating sense.
“Take me to the safe room,” I said, my voice completely hollowed out.
Emily nodded.
We moved silently through the mansion, down into the basement. The steel door to the panic room was secured. I punched in the override code.
The heavy door clicked open.
I stepped inside.
Rosa was sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around Mia and Valentina. Lucia was sitting beside them, her knees pulled to her chest.
When they saw me, the girls shrank back.
It broke whatever was left of my heart.
“Rosa,” I said softly. “Are they hurt?”
“No,” Rosa said, her face pale. “Dominic, what is happening?”
Before I could answer, I saw it.
Hanging on the coat rack in the corner of the safe room was an old, heavy winter coat. Isabella’s coat. The one she had been wearing the day she died. The police had returned it in a sealed box months ago, and I had thrown it in here because I couldn’t bear to look at it.
But now, the lining of the coat was ripped open.
I walked over to it.
Sticking out of the torn silk lining was a small, brass key.
It had a tag attached to it. First National of Manhattan. Box 402.
I turned to Emily. “Did you know about this?”
She shook her head, staring at the key. “No. I’ve never seen it.”
I pulled the key from the lining.
Isabella had hidden a safety deposit key in her coat. She knew she might not survive. She had left something behind.
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
The caller ID said Silvio.
I stared at the screen, the rage boiling over in my veins. I answered it.
“Dominic,” Silvio’s smooth, gravelly voice came through the speaker. “I heard there was a disturbance at the estate. Marcus is dead. Are you and the girls secure?”
He was testing me. He wanted to know if I knew.
“We’re fine, Silvio,” I lied smoothly. “Just a cartel remnant. I handled it.”
“Good. Stay put. I’m sending a security team to lock down the house.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’m taking the girls and going dark. I’ll call you when we’re safe.”
I hung up before he could argue.
May you like
I looked at Emily, then at Rosa.
“Silvio is coming to kill us,” I said. “We have to leave. Now.”
