Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE ON BEACON HILL
Chloe didn’t sleep a single minute.
At 8:55 AM, she stood in front of a massive red-brick townhouse on Beacon Hill, wearing her only decent black coat over jeans and worn boots. Her seventy-dollar bank balance was still seventy dollars; the five thousand in cash was zipped inside her backpack, untouched. You didn't spend mafia money until you knew what it cost.
Before she could knock, the heavy oak door swung open.
A woman in pale blue medical scrubs stood in the foyer, holding a silver tray with a pill organizer and a glass of orange juice. She had bleached blonde hair, thin lips, and a gold Rolex that no home-health nurse could ever afford on an hourly wage.
“Delivery goes around the back,” the nurse said dismissively, moving to shut the door.
“I’m not delivery,” Chloe said, jamming her boot against the brass threshold. “Gabriel Costello told me to be here at nine.”
“Who is it, Brenda?”
Gabriel appeared at the top of the curved mahogany staircase. In the morning light, wearing a dark cashmere sweater and charcoal trousers, he looked less like a monster from the evening news and more like a fatigued CEO—until you looked at his eyes. They were still cold enough to freeze harbor water.
“She says you sent for her, Mr. Costello,” Brenda said, her posture stiffening.
“I did,” Gabriel said, descending the stairs. “Take my mother’s medication up to the sunroom. Wait outside the door until I’m finished.”
Brenda cast a sharp, suspicious glance at Chloe before heading upstairs, the glass of orange juice clinking softly against the silver tray.
Gabriel stopped in front of Chloe. He looked at her dark circles, her faded coat, and finally her hands, which were shoved deep into her pockets where Leo’s rosary was wrapped around her knuckles.
“You’re on time,” he said.
“You left five thousand dollars on my table,” Chloe replied, pulling the envelope of cash from her bag and holding it out to him. “I don’t take tips for translating basic human decency.”
Gabriel didn’t take the envelope. “Keep it. Consider it a retainer.”
“I’m a waitress, Mr. Costello, not an interpreter.”
“You are whatever I pay you to be for two hours every morning,” Gabriel said, stepping aside so she could enter. “My mother lost her hearing three years ago after a viral infection damaged her auditory nerves. She refuses to use writing tablets. She refuses to read lips. For the last eight months, she has barely communicated with anyone in this house.”
“Because nobody in this house bothered to learn her language,” Chloe said bluntly.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “I hired three certified ASL interpreters from Mass General. My mother threw a porcelain teapot at the first one, locked herself in the bathroom for the second, and bit the third.”
Despite the tension in her chest, the corners of Chloe’s mouth twitched. “Bit her?”
“Drew blood,” Gabriel confirmed darkly. “Yesterday was the first time she has willingly conversed with anyone since the spring. You’re going to sit with her while she eats breakfast, find out why she’s refusing her blood pressure medication, and tell me everything she says.”
“If I translate for her, I work for her,” Chloe countered. “Interpreter ethics. I don’t spy on deaf people just because their sons have control issues.”
Gabriel stepped closer, towering over her in the quiet foyer. “Let’s get something straight, Miss Bennett. Yes, I know your last name. I also know you’re two months behind on your tuition payments at Bunker Hill Community College, your landlord filed an eviction notice on Tuesday, and you work double shifts six days a week. Don’t lecture me about ethics when I’m offering to keep a roof over your head.”
Heat flared in Chloe’s cheeks, anger overriding her fear. “Knowing my credit score doesn’t make you less of a terrible son.”
For a second, she thought he might throw her out onto the cobblestones. Instead, Gabriel let out a slow breath through his nose.
“The sunroom is on the second floor,” he said coldly. “Don’t make me regret leaving you breathing.”
When they entered the bright, plant-filled sunroom, Beatrice was sitting in a wicker armchair. The tray of food sat untouched on the table beside her, right next to the glass of orange juice and two small white capsules.
Beatrice’s face lit up the moment she saw Chloe.
Gabriel pulled up a chair near the window, crossing his arms. “Ask her why she hasn’t taken her pills.”
Chloe sat opposite the older woman. She kept her expression warm and calm as she raised her hands.
Your son wants to know why you aren’t taking your pills. Which one is the poison?
Beatrice glanced toward the hallway where Brenda stood behind the glass French doors, then signed back casually, as if discussing the weather.
The orange juice. She crushes a sedative into it every morning so I sleep all day. When I wake up, my memory is foggy. Dante hired her six months ago.
Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs. She turned to Gabriel. “She says the pills give her heartburn unless she eats toast first, and the toast is cold.”
Gabriel frowned. “That’s it?”
“Old women are particular about their toast, Mr. Costello.” Chloe stood up and picked up the glass of orange juice, pretending to inspect it. “And there’s pulp in this juice. She hates pulp. Why don’t you go ask the kitchen for fresh toast while I dump this out?”
Gabriel’s dark eyes narrowed on her face. He wasn't stupid. He looked from the glass of juice in Chloe’s hand to his mother’s serene face, then toward the hallway where Brenda was watching through the glass.
Instead of arguing, Gabriel walked over to a large potted fern in the corner of the sunroom, took the glass from Chloe’s hand, and poured half the orange juice into the soil.
“Tell her I ate the toast,” Gabriel muttered, setting the half-empty glass back on the tray. “Now ask her what she was trying to tell me at dinner last night before Dante interrupted.”
Chloe sat back down and signed to Beatrice. Why did you give me Leo’s rosary? How did you get it?
Beatrice’s gentle expression vanished, replaced by deep, sorrowful gravity. Her spotted hands moved slowly, deliberately.
Because my husband’s green Mercedes killed your brother two years ago. And the man sitting in this room wasn’t the one driving it—even though he thinks he is.
Chloe’s hands dropped into her lap. The sunroom seemed to tilt on its axis.
She slowly turned her head to look at Gabriel, who was leaning against the bookshelf, watching her intently.
“Well?” Gabriel asked, his voice dropping low. “What did she say?”
Just then, the French doors opened, and Dante walked in without knocking, his right hand resting casually inside his suit jacket.
May you like
“Sorry to interrupt, Boss,” Dante said smoothly, his cold eyes locking onto Chloe. “Traffic police just flagged a black tow truck outside the restaurant from last night. Seems the waitress here dropped something that belongs to the family.”
Dante pulled his hand from his jacket and held up a small plastic evidence bag containing a torn corner of a white linen napkin—stained with red wine and stamped with the silver Costello family crest.
