Chapter 3 - ghosts in the east wing
Vivienne let out a harsh, bitter laugh that echoed off the high ceiling. "She’s lying! Dominic, look at her! She’s an opportunistic maid who found a way to worm herself into this house!"
"Shut your mouth," Dominic said without looking at her.
He gestured to Mateo. "Take Mrs. Ferraro to the library. Lock the door from the outside. If she tries to make a phone call, break the phone. If she touches the window, break her wrist."
Mateo stepped forward, grabbing Vivienne by the upper arm with iron grip.
"Dominic! You can't treat me like this! I am Julian’s widow! I have rights in this house!" Vivienne shrieked as she was dragged across the marble, leaving a smeared trail of wine and broken tart crust behind her. "You’re destroying this family for a whore and a gutter rat!"
The heavy mahogany doors of the library slammed shut, cutting off her voice.
The ballroom remained petrified. Dominic turned to his guests, his posture returning to the terrifying, regal calm that kept five syndicates under his thumb.
"The gala is over," Dominic announced smoothly. "My drivers will escort each of you to your vehicles one by one. You will leave your phones in the baskets at the coat check. They will be returned to your residences tomorrow morning after security clearance."
Nobody argued. Nobody asked for their coats. Within ten minutes, the great ballroom was empty, save for the security team cleaning the broken glass and Anna standing near the pillar with Noah.
Dominic walked over to them. He took off his tuxedo jacket, folded it over his arm, and loosened his black silk bowtie.
"Come with me," he said.
"Dominic, please," Anna said, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Noah is exhausted. He doesn't understand any of this."
"He understands enough to keep that ring around his neck," Dominic replied. "My private quarters. Now."
Ten minutes later, Anna sat on a deep leather sofa in Dominic’s private penthouse on the top floor of the mansion. Noah sat beside her, drinking warm milk that a butler had brought on a silver tray with shaking hands. The boy’s eyes were heavy, his eyelids drooping, but he kept one hand firmly anchored to Anna's knee.
Dominic sat behind his massive oak desk, staring at the silver ring resting under the green lamp light.
"You were twenty-five," Dominic said quietly, breaking the silence. "Working at the Lake Shore hotel. You brought room service to the penthouse three nights in a row while I was negotiating the harbor treaty."
"You had a gunshot wound in your left shoulder," Anna answered, staring straight at him. "You wouldn't call a doctor. You made me sterilize a needle with bourbon and sew it shut."
Dominic's hand drifted subconsciously to his left shoulder beneath his white dress shirt. A faint, jagged scar still ran across the muscle there.
"The night the building was hit," Dominic said, "I put you in the safe room behind the kitchen. I gave you that ring and told you to wait for me. When the explosion blew the stairwell, I fell three stories into the basement. I woke up two weeks later in a private clinic in Geneva. My brother Julian was standing over my bed."
Anna swallowed hard. "Julian told you I was dead?"
"Julian told me everyone in the north wing died in the collapse," Dominic said. "He showed me the death certificates. He showed me the dental records from the city morgue. He told me the cartel had tracked my location through you, and that you paid for it with your life."
Anna’s face twisted in agony. "He told me the exact opposite."
Dominic leaned forward, his elbows resting on the mahogany desk. "Tell me."
"A woman came to the hospital while I was recovering from smoke inhalation," Anna said, her voice shaking. "She brought Julian’s private security. She told me you were dead before the fire even started. She said your associates believed I was an informant for the federal prosecutors, and if I ever stepped foot back in Illinois, they would put me in the ground next to you."
"Vivienne," Dominic whispered.
"She handed me ten thousand dollars in cash and a bus ticket to Ohio," Anna continued, tears shining in the lamp light. "She told me if I ever spoke your name again, she would send men to find me. I was three weeks pregnant, Dominic. I had no family. I had fifty dollars to my name and your ring."
Dominic’s breathing turned ragged. A dark, suffocating fury was rising in his chest, hot and lethal.
"Why come back?" Dominic asked. "Why take a job in this house three months ago?"
Anna reached into her apron pocket. She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, weathered and creased, and laid it on the desk.
May you like
Dominic picked it up. Written in crisp, typed letters was an address and a single sentence:
*Dominic Ferraro is alive. If you want your son to survive the coming winter, apply for the housekeeping staff at 1400 Crestview Drive. Ask for Vivienne.*
