Chapter 2 - the dead woman's handwriting
Dominic did not take his eyes off the folded parchment.
His mother had called him Nico behind closed iron gates, far from the soldiers, the bodyguards, and the blood on the streets. To the rest of the world, he was Don Dominic Vercelli. To her, he had always been Nico.
"Where did you get this?" Dominic’s voice was barely a whisper, yet the ballroom remained so silent that every waiter along the far wall heard it.
"Dominic, don't touch that!" Vivienne scrambled to her feet, her hand pressed against her reddening cheek. Her voice pitched high, shrill with desperation. "She’s been in this house for three weeks! She cleaned out the east wing storage yesterday! She stole it from Julian's old lockboxes! She's running a scam!"
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head toward his sister-in-law. With two fingers, he took the folded paper from Elena’s trembling hand.
The paper was brittle. It smelled faintly of dried lavender and old wax—the exact scent of his mother’s private sitting room, a room that had been locked and sealed the night she passed away.
He unfolded the paper just enough to read the first line:
*If you are reading this, Nico, Julian failed to keep his promise, and my time is short. Protect the girl. She is the reason our family still has a soul.*
Dominic’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched beneath his scar. He folded the note, sliding it into the breast pocket of his tuxedo directly over his heart.
He turned his eyes back to Elena. Her fair skin was flushed, but her gaze didn't waver. There was no terror in her eyes, only an exhausting, heavy sorrow.
"Come with me," Dominic commanded.
"Dominic, you cannot take a servant into the private quarters in front of these people!" Vivienne hissed, stepping into his path, her red gown sweeping across the spilled wine. "The Falcone family is watching! Judge Miller is here! You will look weak!"
Dominic stopped. He looked down at Vivienne with an expression so dead, so stripped of warmth, that the woman took a half-step back.
"If you ever touch anyone under my roof again without my order, Vivienne, you will leave this estate in a pine box. Clear this room. The party is over."
He didn't wait for her reply. He signaled to his head of security, Mateo, who instantly began ushering the stunned guests toward the grand foyer.
Dominic walked toward the private elevator behind the grand staircase. Elena followed two steps behind, her flats clicking softly against the marble, her uniform still dripping pinot noir onto the Persian rugs.
They entered his private office on the third floor. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, dark leather armchairs, and bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty grounds of the estate.
Dominic walked behind his desk, pouring two fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass. He didn't drink. He just let the amber liquid catch the desk lamp's green glow.
"Sit," he said.
Elena remained standing by the heavy door. "I prefer to stand, Mr. Vercelli."
"I am not asking."
Elena hesitated, then took a seat in the leather chair across from him, resting her hands neatly on her lap. Her knuckles were bruised where Vivienne had stepped on the silver tray.
Dominic leaned forward, resting both forearms on the desk. "My mother died five years ago at St. Jude’s Hospice. She had advanced dementia for the last two years of her life. She couldn't remember my name. She couldn't remember where she lived." He leaned in closer, his voice dark and deliberate. "So tell me how a maid who started working in my kitchen twenty-one days ago has a letter written in her hand, bearing a mark only four people in this world ever carried?"
Elena looked directly into his eyes. "Because she didn't have dementia, Mr. Vercelli."
Dominic froze.
"She was terrified," Elena whispered. "She was pretending so they wouldn't finish what they started. And she gave me that letter two nights before she died, inside the old conservatory behind the chapel—where you used to hide when your father was angry."
Dominic's hand gripped the edge of the desk until the wood creaked. Only three people knew about the space behind the chapel: his father, his mother, and his late brother Julian.
"Who told you about the chapel?" Dominic demanded, rising slowly out of his chair.
May you like
Elena reached up to her neck and pulled a thin silver chain from beneath her collar. Dangling from the link was a small, ornate brass key with three notches filed into the spine.
"She told me to give you the letter first," Elena said, her voice shaking slightly. "And if you didn't kill me for having the tattoo, I was supposed to give you this."
