THE HOUSEKEEPER’S REVENGE: THE BILLIONAIRE’S FIANCÉE TRIED TO ERASE HIS MOTHER’S MEMORY, BUT ONE HIDDEN PURSE UNLEASHED A 26-YEAR-OLD SECRET

The empty buttonhole on Frank’s left sleeve felt louder than a siren.

Uncle Frank stared at his own wrist as if it were a venomous snake that had just bitten him. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse propped up against the oak paneling.

“Frank,” Alessandro said. His voice wasn’t a roar this time. It was a terrifying, hollow whisper. It was the voice of a man who had just realized his entire life was a lie built on the blood of his parents.

Frank took a step back, his eyes darting frantically toward the locked double doors. The two massive security guards standing there crossed their arms, blocking any chance of escape.

“Dom, please,” Frank begged, reverting to the childhood nickname he only used when he was desperate. “You have to understand the pressure I was under. She was going to ruin everything!”

Answer One. Frank was the killer. He had suffocated Mrs. Romano.

Open Two. But why? If Mrs. Romano was already dying, why did Frank need to kill her that exact night? And what did Isabella’s father, Arthur Rossi, have to do with Frank twenty-six years ago?

“She was an old, dying woman!” Alessandro exploded, grabbing the heavy crystal decanter from the table and hurling it at the wall just inches from Frank’s head. It shattered into a thousand pieces, showering Frank with red wine that looked sickeningly like blood. “She was your brother’s wife! Why?!”

Frank fell to his knees, weeping openly, the facade of the untouchable mafia elder entirely destroyed by a ten-year-old boy and a housekeeper.

“Because she found the original trust documents!” Frank screamed, burying his face in his hands. “Isabella is right! Twenty-six years ago, your mother and Arthur Rossi were trying to drain the syndicate’s assets to save you. But they didn’t hide the money, Alessandro. They legally transferred ownership of the Romanos’ ports, the casinos, the real estate—everything—into a blind trust!”

Frank looked up, his face twisted in a mix of grief and rage.

“And Arthur Rossi made himself the sole executor. He was going to hold it until you turned eighteen, and then dissolve it, burning the empire to the ground.”

Reversal.

Arthur Rossi wasn’t just a notary. He was the man holding the keys to the entire mafia kingdom, given to him willingly by the boss’s wife.

“My father found out,” Alessandro said, piecing the nightmare together. “That’s why Arthur vanished.”

“Your father didn’t find out,” Frank said, a bitter, ugly laugh escaping his lips. “I did.”

The room went dead silent again. Even the guests stopped breathing.

“I found out Arthur Rossi was betraying us,” Frank confessed, his eyes wide and manic. “I confronted him. I demanded he give me the trust documents. When he refused… I killed him.”

Isabella let out a gut-wrenching scream. She lunged at Frank, her nails bared, but Alessandro caught her around the waist, holding her back as she thrashed and sobbed. “You killed him! You killed my father!”

“I did it for the family!” Frank yelled back at her. “I took the signet ring from his body to prove to your father, Alessandro, that the traitor was dead! But Arthur had already hidden the trust documents. I spent twenty-six years looking for them. Without those papers, the Romano empire is built on sand. Legally, we own nothing.”

Frank looked at me, then at the antique walnut chair.

“Eight months ago, your mother finally told me the truth,” Frank said, his voice trembling. “She told me she knew I killed Arthur. She told me she had the trust documents. And she said she was going to give them to Isabella on her wedding day, to finish what they started twenty-six years ago. She was going to give the empire to Arthur’s daughter.”

Answer One. Frank killed Mrs. Romano to stop her from handing the Romano empire over to Isabella. He found Isabella’s poison vial, realized the opportunity, and suffocated Mrs. Romano, intending to blame Isabella if he was ever caught.

“Where are the documents, Frank?” Alessandro asked, his voice deadly calm. “Did you find them after you killed her?”

Frank shook his head miserably. “No. I tore her room apart, but I couldn’t find them. That’s why I’ve been pushing you to marry Isabella. I thought if she became your wife, the assets would legally merge back into the family anyway.”

Isabella stopped struggling against Alessandro. She looked at Frank in pure horror. “You wanted me to marry him… so you could steal my inheritance?”

“I wanted to save the family!” Frank roared.

Then, Frank’s eyes snapped toward me. He looked at the cracked walnut chair. He looked at the battered leather purse still sitting on the table.

“The housekeeper knows,” Frank hissed, staggering to his feet. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Margaret knows where the documents are. That old witch has been guarding them this whole time! That’s why she brought the purse! That’s why she brought the key!”

Alessandro turned to me.

Twenty-four guests turned to me.

I stood tall, wrapping one arm protectively around Leo’s shoulders. I looked at the man who had murdered my beloved employer, and I felt no fear. Only a deep, righteous anger.

“Yes,” I said clearly. “I know exactly where the documents are.”

Before Alessandro could ask, Frank’s hand darted down to his ankle. The movement was a blur of desperation.

In a fraction of a second, Frank pulled a small, silver snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster. But he didn’t aim it at Alessandro. He didn’t aim it at Isabella.