Chapter 8 - THE MAID RETURNS
The mansion looked different when I returned.
Earlier, it had been a palace.
Now it looked like a crime scene wearing expensive perfume.
Dante dropped me near the rear service road in a delivery van with false plates. He hated the plan. Lorenzo hated it more. Bellamy called it reckless. I called it necessary.
I wore a clean maid uniform from the safe house supply closet, a black coat, and shoes two sizes too big. My hair was pinned under a scarf. My face was pale enough that no makeup was needed.
Grief made a good disguise.
At the servants’ entrance, two guards stood smoking beneath an awning.
Neither recognized me at first.
That was the magic of uniforms. People saw the apron, the lowered eyes, the bent shoulders. They never saw the woman inside.
One guard glanced at me. “Kitchen staff?”
I nodded.
“You’re late.”
“Mrs. Alvarez called me in,” I murmured.
He waved me through.
Just like that, I was back inside the house that had almost swallowed me.
The service corridor smelled the same: polish, onions, old steam pipes. But now every sound had teeth. A distant shout. A phone ringing. Shoes on marble above. Men moving furniture or bodies—I did not want to know which.
Dante’s voice murmured through the tiny earpiece hidden beneath my scarf.
“Camera loop is holding. You have twelve minutes before their system refreshes.”
“Twelve minutes,” I whispered.
“Less if someone looks closely.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
I moved toward the east wing.
Twice, I had to duck into closets while guards passed. Once, Marco himself walked across the hall ahead of me, speaking into his phone.
“No, Uncle Sal, Lorenzo is emotional. Dangerous. We all saw this coming after Sofia. A grieving man with too much power becomes a liability.”
I froze behind a half-open laundry door.
Marco paused so close I could smell his cologne.
“By sunrise, we solve it. The child, if alive, becomes a ward of the family. The maid becomes a headline. Lorenzo becomes a memory.”
My hand tightened around the black device Lorenzo had given me.
One press, Dante hears.
Two presses, Lorenzo comes.
Three presses, someone dies.
Marco walked away.
I waited until his footsteps faded, then continued.
Sofia’s studio was at the end of the east corridor behind double doors painted pale green. One guard stood outside.
Too young.
Nervous.
Not one of Lorenzo’s old soldiers.
A Marco hire.
I lowered my head and approached carrying a basket of linens I had stolen from the laundry room.
“No one goes in,” he said.
“Mr. Rossi requested towels.”
He smirked. “Which Mr. Rossi?”
I looked confused on purpose.
Servants survived by appearing less intelligent than the men questioning them.
He rolled his eyes. “Leave it.”
“I was told to put them inside.”
“Are you deaf?”
I fumbled the basket.
Towels spilled everywhere.
“Sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”
He cursed and bent to grab one.
I struck him with the small medical injector Bellamy had given me.
Not enough to harm permanently.
Enough to drop him.
His eyes widened. “What—”
He collapsed into the towels.
I stared down at him, shocked by myself.
Dante’s voice came through. “Mara?”
“I did it.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Drag him inside.”
I unlocked the studio with the key card taken from his belt and pulled him through the door with more effort than dignity.
Sofia’s studio was covered in white sheets.
Moonlight slipped through tall windows. Canvases leaned against walls. Dried paint hardened on palettes. The room smelled faintly of turpentine and roses.
Cecelia sat tied to a chair in the center.
Her face was bruised.
Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“You,” she whispered.
I shut the door.
“Yes,” I said. “Me.”
For one second, all I wanted was to slap her.
For Leo.
For Sofia.
For every bottle she had tainted.
But revenge was not proof.
I pulled the cloth from her mouth.
She sucked in air. “Untie me.”
“Give me a reason.”
“Marco will kill me.”
“You helped him poison a baby.”
Her face crumpled, but I did not trust it.
“He said it would only make Leo weak,” she said quickly. “He said the baby was already sick. He said Lorenzo would ruin everyone if he kept control after Sofia died.”
“You expect me to pity you?”
“No. I expect you to understand being trapped by violent men.”
That hit too close.
My hand froze on the rope.
Cecelia saw it.
“He owns my brother’s debts,” she whispered. “He had photos. Addresses. He said if I refused, my brother would disappear and my mother would get pieces of him in the mail.”
I hated her for saying something human.
I hated that it might be true.
Dante said through my earpiece, “Keep her talking.”
I took out my phone and started recording.
“Say his name.”
Cecelia’s eyes filled with fear.
“Say it,” I repeated.
“Marco Rossi,” she whispered.
“Louder.”
“Marco Rossi ordered me to sedate Leonardo Rossi.”
My pulse thundered.
“How often?”
“Small doses in bottles. Sometimes on pacifiers. Sometimes I told other nurses he had already been fed so they wouldn’t try.”
“Did he order Sofia harmed?”
Her face went white.
I stepped closer. “Cecelia.”
“I wasn’t there when Sofia died.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She trembled. “He changed her medication. I saw the bottle after. I didn’t know before. I swear I didn’t know before.”
A noise sounded outside.
Footsteps.
I shoved the gag back toward her mouth.
She shook her head frantically. “Wait. There’s more.”
The doorknob turned.
Locked.
A man outside cursed.
My eyes darted around the room.
No exit.
Dante’s voice sharpened. “Mara, move. Two men approaching.”
“Where?”
“Window.”
“We’re on the second floor.”
“There’s a balcony ledge.”
Of course there was.
Rich people called death traps architectural details.
I cut Cecelia’s ropes with a letter opener from Sofia’s desk. She nearly fell forward.
“Can you climb?”
“No.”
“Then learn.”
The door shook under a heavy kick.
I dragged Cecelia toward the window.
As I pushed it open, something on Sofia’s desk caught my eye.
A painting, small and unfinished, hidden beneath a cloth.
It showed Marco standing near a crib.
Behind him, reflected in a nursery mirror, was another figure.
Uncle Sal.
The old family patriarch.
The man attending the council at sunrise.
The real danger had more than one face.
May you like
The door burst open.
I grabbed the painting, shoved Cecelia onto the balcony, and climbed into the rain as men shouted behind us.
