Chapter 3 - THE SILVER POCKET WATCH
“I didn’t read it,” Clara said frantically, stepping back until her legs hit the edge of the desk. “I swear to you, Mr. Castillion. I don’t know what it says. I just wanted the blank side for the crayons.”
Leo kept his eyes on the manifest, his mind moving like a grandmaster analyzing a chessboard.
“You wouldn’t understand it even if you read it,” Leo said quietly. He folded the paper and slid it into his shirt pocket. “It’s a blind routing number. Vincent has been using my private docks to move undocumented cargo. He’s smuggling under the Castillion name. And he was burning the evidence this morning when you walked in.”
Clara felt the blood drain from her face.
She remembered the smell of smoke. The way Vincent had lunged at her from the shadows of the incinerator room. The terrifying strength in his hands as he grabbed her left arm, twisting it backward until a sickening pop echoed against the tile walls.
“You see nothing, you hear nothing, you take nothing,” Vincent had whispered in her ear as she sank to her knees in agony. “Or the next time I break something, it’ll be that pretty little girl of yours.”
“He knows about Lily,” Clara choked out, the memory crushing the air from her lungs. “He knows where she goes to daycare. He threatened her. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
Leo’s expression hardened into something carved from stone.
He turned to the doctor, who was quietly packing his bag, pretending not to hear the mafia business being discussed.
“Arthur, wait outside,” Leo ordered.
The doctor nodded quickly and left the study, closing the heavy doors behind him.
Leo stepped closer to Clara. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a heavy, grounding force.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Leo said, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Vincent is a dead man. He just doesn’t know it yet. But right now, my only priority is securing this house and making sure your daughter is safe. Where is Lily right now?”
“At her babysitter’s,” Clara said, her voice shaking. “Mrs. Gable. She lives in a first-floor apartment on 4th Street. I’m supposed to pick her up in twenty minutes.”
Leo checked his watch. “You are going to stay exactly where you are. I’m sending Daniel and two of my best men to retrieve her.”
“No!” Clara panicked, pushing past him toward the door. “I have to go! If Vincent sees your men, he’ll know I told you. He’ll send someone to hurt her!”
“Clara, stop.” Leo grabbed her good arm, not hard, but firm enough to halt her momentum. “You are injured, exhausted, and running on adrenaline. You cannot protect her from Vincent’s men. I can.”
“She won’t go with strangers!” Clara cried, desperate. “She’s terrified of men in suits. Please, Leo.”
It was the first time she had used his first name.
The sound of it seemed to register in the quiet room. Leo released her arm, his expression softening just a fraction.
“I can’t let you leave this estate,” Leo said. “If Vincent realizes you’ve spoken to me, he’ll intercept you before you reach the bottom of the hill.”
“I’ll take the staff exit,” Clara pleaded. “I have my coat in the mudroom. I’ll walk through the woods to the bus stop. He won’t see me.”
Leo stared at her, weighing the fierce, maternal defiance in her eyes. He knew he couldn’t stop a mother from getting to her child without locking her in the room.
“Five minutes,” Leo said softly. “You have a five-minute head start. I will track your phone. If you deviate from the route, my men will pull you off the street. Understood?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Clara didn’t wait. She slipped out the side door of the study, navigating the labyrinth of servant corridors she knew by heart. Her left arm throbbed in its new cast, but the pain was a distant static compared to the terror gripping her heart.
She reached the mudroom at the back of the estate. It was dark, smelling of wet wool and floor wax.
Clara reached for her cheap gray wool coat hanging on the rack.
As her fingers brushed the fabric, a sound cut through the darkness.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It was a slow, metallic rhythm.
A shadow detached itself from the corner of the room.
May you like
Vincent Marlowe stepped into the dim light spilling from the hallway. In his right hand, he held a heavy, ornate silver pocket watch, the lid flipped open.
“You’re leaving early, Clara,” Vincent said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. He snapped the watch shut with a sharp clack. “And without finishing the lamb. I’m very disappointed.”
