THE DON’S DEADLY CHARADE: WHAT THE MAID UNCOVERED

"Leo," Martha gasped, lunging forward.

Vincent casually stepped back, lifting the blue teddy bear out of her reach. "Careful, sweetheart. The floors are slippery."

He tossed the bear onto the dry vanity counter, his dark eyes never leaving Martha’s face. "The boy is fine. I found him sitting by the front gate waiting for his mother. The perimeter guards were about to run him off. I told them to bring him into the kitchen. Fed him a slice of chocolate cake."

Martha’s hands trembled so violently she had to grip the wet towels against her chest just to hide the shaking. Leo wasn't supposed to be here. His after-school care was paid for until six o'clock.

"He... he must have walked from the center," Martha stammered, frantically trying to piece together a lie. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Rourke. I'll take him home immediately."

"Nonsense," Vincent said smoothly, though there was nothing warm in his tone. He stepped fully into the sweltering bathroom, wiping a bead of condensation from his tailored lapel. "A loyal employee shouldn't have to worry about childcare. I've already arranged for him to stay in the guest quarters next to your room. Consider it a perk of the job."

It wasn't a perk. It was a leash.

Martha glanced at the bathtub. Maxwell was slumped perfectly against the porcelain, his legs floating uselessly in the water. To anyone else, he looked like a tragic king dethroned by his own broken spine. But Martha could see the microscopic tension in his jaw.

Vincent turned his attention to his paralyzed brother. The disdain in his eyes was naked and ugly.

"Water too hot for you, Max?" Vincent asked, stepping over to the tub. He casually dipped his hand into the water and whistled. "Jesus. It's scalding. You're boiling alive and you can't even feel it. Pathetic."

"Leave the maid out of your power trips, Vince," Maxwell rasped, playing the part of the embittered cripple flawlessly. "Tell her to get me my chair."

"In a minute," Vincent said. He leaned over the tub, invading Maxwell’s personal space. "The union bosses called again. They want to know who’s signing the new freight contracts on Friday. I told them you were too sick to hold a pen."

"I still run this family," Maxwell growled.

"You run a bathtub, Max," Vincent sneered. He patted Maxwell’s wet cheek—a profoundly disrespectful gesture that would have gotten a man shot two years ago. "I'll handle the contracts. You just focus on not drowning."

Vincent turned on his heel and walked out, his expensive shoes clicking away down the hall.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, the heavy, suffocating silence returned.

Martha dropped the towels and rushed to the sink, grabbing her son’s blue bear. She pressed the worn fabric to her face, trying to ground herself. Vincent had brought her son inside the compound. They were trapped.

"He didn't find your boy at the gate," Maxwell said quietly from the water.

Martha spun around. "What?"

"My guards don't let strays wander up to the gates. Vince had his men pick your son up from the daycare. He brought him here on purpose."

"Why?!" Martha cried, keeping her voice to a harsh whisper. "I don't know anything! I just clean the floors!"

"Because Vince doesn't trust anyone he doesn't own," Maxwell said. He gripped the edge of the tub, his massive arms straining as he slowly, agonizingly hoisted his torso up. "And because of Chloe."

"Who is Chloe?"

"My six-year-old daughter," Maxwell said, his voice cracking with a sudden, raw emotion. "The crash that took my wife... Chloe was in the backseat. She hasn't spoken a single word since that night. Vince pretends to play the doting uncle, but he’s keeping her here as a hostage, just like your boy. If I sign the business over to him, he’ll dispose of me. And then he’ll dispose of Chloe, because she’s the only legitimate heir."

Martha felt the blood drain from her face. She thought she was entering a crime family's house to clean toilets. Instead, she had walked into a warzone.

"I need your help, Martha," Maxwell said, his dark eyes pleading. "My legs are waking up, but I am weak. The nerve damage is healing, but I can't walk yet. I need a nurse. I need someone to help me rehabilitate in secret, in the dead of night, so I can stand up and kill my brother before he hurts our children."

Martha clutched the bear. She wanted to run. She wanted to grab Leo and flee the state.

But as she looked at the desperate father trapped in the water, she knew Vincent would never let them leave.

"Okay," Martha whispered. "What do we do?"

"First," Maxwell said, pointing to a stack of folded clothes on the teak bench. "You need to get the silver pocket watch from my trousers. It belonged to the mechanic who sabotaged my car. I took it off his body before Vince’s men could clean up the mess."

Martha hurried to the bench and dug through the pockets of Maxwell’s slacks. Her fingers closed around cold, heavy metal. She pulled out a tarnished silver watch.

But as she flipped it open, her breath caught in her throat.

There was no clock face inside.

Instead, wedged tightly beneath the glass, was a photograph. A hospital photograph of a nurse walking down a hallway.