Chapter 2 - THE GOLD CANE ON THE BALLROOM FLOOR
The wrought-iron gates of the Costello estate loomed like the entrance to a fortress.
I parked my rusted ten-year-old Honda Civic between a gleaming black Bentley and a silver Mercedes. I felt entirely out of place. My black dress was from a clearance rack, my shoes were scuffed at the heels, and my checking account still held exactly seventy-three dollars.
But I wasn’t here for the money, and I wasn’t here for the mafia boss who owned the estate.
I was here because a deaf, elderly woman had asked for my company.
A formidable man in a dark suit opened the heavy oak front door before I could even knock. He didn't ask for my name. He simply nodded and gestured for me to follow him down a hallway lined with marble and original oil paintings.
The low hum of conversation grew louder. We entered a massive ballroom with vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers that dwarfed the ones at the restaurant.
Thirty wealthy guests stood in small, powerful clusters, holding champagne flutes and speaking in hushed, serious tones.
And standing near the grand fireplace was Gabriel Costello.
He wore a tailored charcoal suit that made the other men in the room look unpolished. His cold gray eyes scanned the crowd, calculating and distant. When his gaze landed on me, he stopped mid-sentence.
He excused himself from a group of older men and walked directly toward me.
"You came," Gabriel said.
"I said I would."
"People say a lot of things to me. They rarely follow through unless they want something."
Before I could answer, a frantic tug on my sleeve pulled my attention away.
Beatrice stood there, her eyes shining with absolute delight. She wore a stunning emerald-green dress, but her hands were already moving before I could compliment her.
You look beautiful. My son is staring at you.
My cheeks flushed hot. I raised my hands.
He is staring at my terrible car outside.
Beatrice laughed her silent, whole-body laugh. She linked her arm through mine and began pulling me away from Gabriel, right toward the center of the room.
Gabriel followed close behind, his presence parting the sea of wealthy guests like a ship cutting through water.
"Ma, don't overwhelm her," Gabriel warned.
Tell him to mind his own business, Beatrice signed to me.
"She says you should mingle with your guests," I translated diplomatically.
Gabriel’s mouth twitched. "That’s not what she said."
Before Beatrice could sign her retort, the heavy double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened.
The entire room went dead silent.
An older man stepped through the doorway. He possessed the same sharp jawline as Gabriel, but his hair was pure white, and a jagged scar ran along his left cheek. He leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane with a solid gold handle.
Vincenzo Costello.
Gabriel’s father.
He had just returned from Sicily after twelve years. The tension in the room was suffocating. Even Gabriel stiffened, his shoulders squaring as his father slowly surveyed the ballroom.
Vincenzo’s eyes bypassed the politicians, the businessmen, and his own son.
His gaze locked onto Beatrice.
He began walking toward us. The rhythmic thud, click, thud of his cane against the marble floor echoed in the quiet room.
When he reached us, he didn't look at Gabriel. He looked at Beatrice, then slowly shifted his heavy, dark eyes to me.
"And who is this?" Vincenzo’s voice was like grinding stones, thick with a heavy Sicilian accent.
"Chloe Bennett," Gabriel answered smoothly, stepping slightly in front of me. "A guest of Mother's."
Vincenzo looked me up and down. He noticed my cheap shoes. He noticed my unbranded dress. A sneer touched the corner of his scarred mouth.
He turned his head slightly toward one of his older lieutenants and spoke in a rapid, obscure dialect of Sicilian.
It wasn't standard Italian. It was a regional dialect from the mountains near Palermo. A dialect my mother had spoken to me every night before she died when I was seven.
"A stray dog off the street," Vincenzo said in the dialect, his voice dripping with aristocratic disgust. "My wife embarrasses this family by bringing a peasant to my homecoming."
The lieutenant chuckled softly. Gabriel didn't react; he clearly didn't understand the specific dialect.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I had seventy-three dollars to my name. I was a waitress. I had no power here.
But I had never let anyone insult someone I cared about.
I stepped around Gabriel. I looked directly into Vincenzo Costello’s dark, ruthless eyes.
And I answered him in perfect, flawless mountain Sicilian.
"The only thing embarrassing this family is a man who insults his own wife in front of strangers," I said clearly. "A true Sicilian would know that respect is given to the mother of the house before anyone else."
The lieutenant choked on his champagne.
Gabriel froze, whipping his head around to stare at me.
Vincenzo stopped breathing.
The older man's eyes widened in absolute shock. He stared at my face. He stared at my dark hair, my green eyes, and the defiant tilt of my chin.
He took a shaky step backward.
His hand trembled violently.
The gold cane slipped from his grip.
It crashed against the marble floor with a deafening, ringing CLANG that made all thirty guests flinch.
Vincenzo didn't look at the cane. He raised a shaking hand, pointing a single, trembling finger at my face.
"Where did you learn those words?" Vincenzo whispered, his voice stripped of all its former power. "Who was your mother?"
"Her name was Maria," I said, my voice shaking but firm.
Vincenzo’s face turned the color of ash.
"Maria..." he choked out. He looked at Gabriel, then back at me, his eyes filling with a terrifying mixture of horror and grief.
May you like
And then Vincenzo said the five words that made the floor drop out from beneath me.
"Maria has been dead for twenty years. Because I killed her."
