Chapter 2 - THE SILVER LIGHTER
“Mr. Bell, I think you should come with me.”
Marcus’s voice was flat, carrying easily across the silent dining room.
I froze, the damp cloth still clutched in my hand. I hadn’t said Tom’s last name. The theater program had read Thomas Bell. But I had only called him Tom.
Adrian slowly stood up. The heavy oak chair scraped against the floor. He didn’t look at Marcus. He looked at Vivienne.
“Why does my head of security know the real name of the man you hired to play your father?”
Vivienne’s perfectly manicured hands gripped the edge of the tablecloth. The blood had drained from her face, leaving her spray tan looking sallow and unnatural in the chandelier light.
“I… I don’t know,” she stammered, looking at Marcus. “I introduced him to Marcus as Charles.”
Marcus didn’t blink. He kept his eyes locked on Tom.
Tom let out a heavy sigh, the kind of sigh a man makes when he finally puts down a terrible burden. He reached into his suit jacket.
Instantly, three of Adrian’s men stepped forward, hands hovering over their holstered weapons.
“Easy,” Tom said softly. He pulled his hand out.
He placed a heavy, tarnished silver lighter on the table. It was engraved with a crest I didn’t recognize—a falcon clutching a rose.
Adrian stared at the lighter. The silence in the room became suffocating.
“Where did you get that?” Adrian asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Answer One: Marcus knew Tom because they were connected through the lighter, not just the theater. Open Two: Why does a community theater actor have a mafia boss’s family heirloom? And why is Vivienne lying about hiring him?
Tom looked up at Adrian. “Your brother gave it to me. Ten years ago.”
A reversal. Adrian’s brother, Leo Falcone, had been murdered a decade ago in a gangland hit that had cemented Adrian’s rise to power. Everyone in the city knew the story.
“Leo is dead,” Adrian said coldly.
“I know,” Tom said. “He gave it to me the night before he died. He told me to keep it until the time was right. And if I ever saw Vivienne Whitmore trying to marry into this family, the time was right.”
Vivienne jumped up. “He’s lying! Adrian, he’s a crazy old man!”
Adrian raised one hand. Vivienne silenced instantly.
He walked around the table and picked up the lighter. He traced the engraved falcon. When he looked up, his dark eyes locked onto mine.
“Maggie,” Adrian said. “You worked with this man. Is he a liar?”
I swallowed hard. My job, my life, my safety were on the line. But I remembered the warm plates of food when I was starving and terrified for my mother.
“He’s an actor,” I said carefully. “But he was the only honest person I knew at that theater.”
Adrian nodded. He looked at Marcus.
“Take Vivienne to the east wing,” Adrian ordered. “Lock the door. Take her phone.”
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“Adrian!” Vivienne screamed, dropping her napkin.
As Marcus grabbed Vivienne’s arm, her designer clutch fell to the floor. It popped open. A small, crumpled child’s drawing spilled out onto the Persian rug. It was a crayon sketch of a house, signed at the bottom in messy, childish letters: To Mommy. Love, Leo Jr.
