Chapter 2 - the silver locket
The silence inside the private study was suffocating. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of the desk clock and the distant hum of the string quartet playing two floors below.
Gabriel stood six inches from Claire. His massive frame completely blocked the light from the hallway. His eyes hadn't left her face.
"Where did you get that locket, Claire?" Gabriel asked. His voice was low, devoid of emotion, but carried a weight that made the air in the room feel heavy.
Claire clutched Mia tighter against her chest, her knuckles turning white. She reached up with a trembling hand, trying to tuck the silver chain back inside her black uniform collar, but Gabriel’s hand shot out, his fingers catching the metal before she could hide it.
"Answer me," he said.
"It... it belonged to my husband," Claire whispered, her voice shaking so badly she could barely form the words. "Marcus. He gave it to me before he died."
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Marcus Morgan?"
"Yes, sir," Claire gasped, her eyes darting toward the open door. "He was a mechanic in South Chicago. He died in an accident three years ago, right before Mia was born."
Gabriel stared at the photograph inside the oval frame. It showed a young man in his early twenties standing on a dock, wearing a leather jacket. Standing right beside him, with an arm thrown over his shoulder, was a twenty-five-year-old Gabriel Valenti. Both men were wearing identical silver lockets around their necks.
Footsteps heavy with purpose echoed down the hall.
Thomas Reed, Gabriel’s chief adviser, stepped into the study holding a leather document folder. His dark-gray hair was neatly styled, his charcoal suit immaculate. He stopped instantly when he saw the scene before him—his boss holding a terrified housekeeper by her necklace while a toddler looked on.
Thomas’s eyes dropped to the silver locket dangling between Gabriel’s fingers. For a fraction of a second, Thomas’s calm, professional expression cracked, a flash of pure panic passing over his eyes before he forced his composure back into place.
"Don Gabriel," Thomas said smoothly, his voice controlled. "The syndicate bosses from Detroit and New York are waiting downstairs. They are asking for you."
Gabriel didn't turn around. "Take Claire and the child down to the second-floor guest quarters. Put two men outside their door."
Claire’s eyes widened in sheer terror. "Mr. Valenti, please! My daughter hasn't done anything wrong! We just work here—"
"You aren't in danger, Claire," Gabriel interrupted, his voice surprisingly soft despite the hardness in his eyes. "Not from me. But you aren't leaving this house tonight."
He released the locket. Claire took two steps backward, holding Mia close, and hurried out of the room under Thomas's watchful eye.
Once the door clicked shut, Gabriel walked back to his desk. He picked up his glass of Scotch, drained it in one swallow, and looked at Thomas, who remained standing near the entrance.
"Bring me Claire Morgan's personnel file," Gabriel ordered. "Now."
Thomas hesitated, his hand resting on his jacket button. "Gabriel, she’s just a widow from the South Side. Bernadette hired her seven months ago to clean the upper guest rooms. There’s nothing in her file that concerns the family."
"Bring me the file, Thomas," Gabriel repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Three minutes later, Thomas set a thin manila folder on the mahogany desk. Gabriel opened it and scanned the pages.
Claire Morgan, age twenty-nine. Widowed. Employed as an estate housekeeper seven months ago. Attached to the back of the application was a formal letter of recommendation.
Gabriel’s eyes stopped at the bottom of the recommendation letter.
The letter was signed by Bernadette Hayes, the estate manager who had run the Valenti household for thirty years. But yesterday morning, during the final preparations for the birthday gala, Bernadette had explicitly told Gabriel that she had never met Claire prior to her employment and had selected her randomly from an agency list.
Gabriel closed the folder slowly, his knuckles white against the paper.
"Thomas," Gabriel said softly. "Where is Bernadette right now?"
"She’s downstairs in the kitchen, Don Gabriel," Thomas replied. "Overseeing the banquet service."
Gabriel stood up, pulling his suit jacket straight. "Call off the gala. Send the syndicate bosses home."
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Thomas looked shocked. "Send them home? Gabriel, they traveled across the country to see you on your fifty-first birthday—"
"Tell them I have family business to attend to," Gabriel said, stepping past him into the dark corridor. "And tell Bernadette I'll be waiting for her in the conservatory."
