Chapter 2 - Someone Inside the House
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Nicholas slowly released Vincent.
“What do you mean inside this house?”
Vincent sank back into his chair.
“They know things.”
“What things?”
“Private things.”
Nicholas’s voice hardened.
“Specific.”
Vincent rubbed both hands across his face.
“They knew which hallway your mother used after breakfast. They knew Marco changed the guard rotation after the poisoning. They knew Evelyn stopped using the downstairs dining room.”
Marco’s expression turned deadly.
Vincent continued.
“They knew you had hired another chef before the employment contract had been signed.”
Every person at the table looked toward Claire.
Claire’s stomach tightened.
Nicholas asked, “When?”
“This morning.”
Claire stared at Vincent.
“Someone knew I was coming before I got here?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I told you. They never gave names.”
“How did they contact you?”
“A phone.”
“Where?”
Vincent hesitated.
Nicholas slammed his fist onto the table.
“Where?”
“My car.”
“What phone?”
“They put it beneath the passenger seat. Cheap prepaid thing. It rings when they want something.”
Marco immediately spoke into his radio.
“Lock down the garage. Nobody enters or leaves.”
Vincent looked at Nicholas.
“I didn’t know they were poisoning her.”
“You switched her silverware.”
“They told me exactly which pieces to move.”
“And you never wondered why?”
“I wondered every damn day.”
“Yet you kept doing it.”
“They had my son!”
Evelyn flinched.
Claire watched Nicholas.
Anger radiated from him, but beneath it was something more dangerous.
Hurt.
Vincent had probably been at birthdays.
Christmases.
Funerals.
Maybe he had taught Nicholas to drive.
Maybe he had stood beside Nicholas’s father when Nicholas was born.
Betrayal hurt most when it knew where the family kept the spare keys.
Evelyn said quietly, “How long?”
Vincent looked at her.
“What?”
“How long have you been helping them?”
He lowered his head.
“Six months.”
Evelyn turned pale.
That meant it had begun before the poisoning.
Claire felt Nicholas realize the same thing.
His eyes became cold.
“They planned it.”
Vincent nodded miserably.
“I think so.”
Nicholas pulled out his phone.
“Marco, take him downstairs.”
Vincent jumped to his feet.
“Nicholas—”
“If you wanted the privilege of being treated like family, you shouldn’t have spent six months helping someone kill mine.”
“I was trying to save Damian!”
“And who was trying to save my mother?”
Vincent had no answer.
The guards escorted him away.
Evelyn remained seated.
Her shoulders had begun trembling.
Claire came around the table.
“Can we go back to the kitchen?”
Nicholas looked at her.
“My mother needs to rest.”
“No.”
Evelyn surprised them both.
“I’m not going upstairs.”
Nicholas softened instantly.
“Mom.”
“I spent four months locked in that bedroom because every plate terrified me.”
She looked toward the doorway Vincent had disappeared through.
“I am finished being frightened in my own house.”
Claire nodded.
“Then kitchen?”
Evelyn’s mouth twitched.
“Do you have more potatoes?”
Claire smiled.
“I have a reckless amount of potatoes.”
Twenty minutes later, Evelyn ate three spoonfuls.
Nobody applauded.
Claire had threatened them beforehand.
No staring.
No encouragement.
No celebration.
Nicholas stood at the far side of the kitchen pretending to read security reports while watching every bite.
Claire caught him on the third spoonful.
She pointed her butter knife at him.
“Stop.”
“I’m reading.”
“Your phone has been upside down for five minutes.”
Nicholas turned it over.
Evelyn laughed.
It was small.
Weak.
But it was laughter.
Claire watched Nicholas’s face.
For a moment the mafia boss disappeared.
A son remained.
He looked at his mother as if he had just heard a sound he feared he would never hear again.
That made Claire look away.
Some moments deserved privacy.
Later, Evelyn returned upstairs with Rosa and her nurse.
Nicholas found Claire cleaning the counter.
“You did what twenty-two chefs couldn’t.”
Claire kept wiping.
“She ate three spoonfuls.”
“She hasn’t eaten three voluntary spoonfuls in weeks.”
“Then tomorrow we’ll try four.”
Nicholas leaned against the island.
“You knew not to celebrate.”
“My father stopped eating during chemotherapy.”
Nicholas’s expression shifted.
Claire kept her eyes on the counter.
“Every person who loved him turned meals into a performance. We’d watch. Beg. Count bites. Praise him. One night he threw a plate at the wall.”
“Like my mother.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I stopped asking him to eat.”
Nicholas waited.
Claire smiled sadly.
“Three hours later, he asked me for grilled cheese.”
“Did he recover?”
Claire’s hand stopped.
“No.”
Nicholas’s face softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“He got eleven more months.”
She resumed wiping.
“And he ate a lot of grilled cheese.”
Nicholas looked as though he wanted to say something else.
Marco entered.
“Boss.”
Claire noticed immediately.
Bad news.
Nicholas straightened.
“What?”
“We found Vincent’s phone.”
“Anything useful?”
“One incoming number. No subscriber data.”
“Location?”
“Probably spoofed.”
“And?”
Marco glanced at Claire.
Nicholas noticed.
“Say it.”
“There’s a message.”
“What message?”
Marco handed him the phone.
Nicholas read.
His face changed.
Claire asked, “What does it say?”
He turned the screen.
THE COOK WASN’T PART OF THE AGREEMENT. SEND HER HOME.
Claire stared.
A second message arrived.
OR WE WILL.
Nicholas immediately turned toward Marco.
“Claire doesn’t leave the property.”
Claire blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Not tonight.”
“I have an apartment.”
“You also have someone threatening you.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re staying.”
Claire folded her arms.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Nicholas stepped closer.
“Someone inside this house knew you were coming. Someone now considers you a problem because you found something twenty-two chefs missed.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
“It becomes my problem if they kill you.”
Claire stared at him.
“I’m not sleeping in a mafia mansion.”
Nicholas’s brows rose.
Nobody had apparently used the word around him all day.
Claire continued.
“I have pajamas at home.”
“I’ll buy you pajamas.”
“I don’t want billionaire crime pajamas.”
“They’re ordinary pajamas.”
“You know what I mean.”
Marco looked down to hide a smile.
Nicholas pointed toward him.
“Send two men to her apartment.”
Claire frowned.
“For pajamas?”
“For everything you need.”
“That is incredibly invasive.”
“So is murder.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“That was annoyingly difficult to argue with.”
“Good.”
“I still dislike you.”
“I’ll survive.”
Claire stared at him.
“I’m beginning to understand why your employees look constipated.”
Marco made a choking sound.
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed.
Then, incredibly, one corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
That evening, Claire was given a guest suite on the third floor.
It was larger than her apartment.
The bathroom alone probably had more square footage than her kitchen at home.
Claire unpacked the small bag security had brought from her apartment.
Her pajamas.
Toothbrush.
Phone charger.
Three paperbacks.
One blue ceramic mug.
And the peppermints.
At eleven thirty, someone knocked.
Claire opened the door.
Nicholas stood there.
“What?”
“Vincent wants to talk.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He won’t tell anyone.”
Claire changed from her rabbit-print pajamas into jeans and followed Nicholas downstairs.
“Those were rabbits?”
“Do not insult my sleepwear.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
Vincent sat inside a small library with Marco guarding the door.
He looked terrible.
Claire took a chair across from him.
“You asked for me?”
Vincent nodded.
Nicholas remained standing.
Vincent glanced at him.
“Alone.”
“No.”
“Nicholas—”
“No.”
Claire shrugged.
“He’s difficult.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Then the fear returned.
“I remembered something.”
Claire waited.
“The night Evelyn was poisoned, she wasn’t supposed to eat chicken.”
Nicholas frowned.
“What?”
“The menu changed.”
“Because Mom wanted sea bass.”
Vincent nodded.
“But someone insisted the chicken remain on the table.”
“Who?”
Vincent swallowed.
“I don’t remember.”
Nicholas stepped forward.
“You don’t remember?”
“There were fifteen people. Staff. Family. Guests.”
Claire leaned closer.
“What do you remember?”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“Blue coat.”
Nicholas stared.
“Inside?”
“She came through the service hall. I assumed she was staff. She whispered to someone near the pantry.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see.”
Claire asked, “Did you hear anything?”
Vincent nodded.
“Three words.”
“What?”
Vincent opened his eyes.
“St. Agnes knows.”
Nicholas and Marco exchanged a look.
Claire noticed.
“What is St. Agnes?”
Neither answered.
Claire turned toward Nicholas.
“Nicholas.”
His expression was unreadable.
Finally, he said, “A church.”
“Why would that matter?”
“My father is buried behind it.”
Vincent looked toward Nicholas.
“So is your grandfather.”
Marco’s phone rang.
He glanced down.
His face drained.
“Boss.”
“What?”
Marco raised the phone slowly.
“We just received a video.”
He pressed play.
Damian Caruso appeared on the screen.
Vincent lunged forward.
“My God.”
His son was alive.
Thin.
Bruised.
Sitting in darkness.
Damian stared into the camera.
“Dad, if you’re seeing this, you failed.”
Vincent started sobbing.
Damian continued.
“They know the cook found the spoon.”
Claire felt ice move through her veins.
Then Damian looked directly into the camera.
“Claire Donnelly.”
She stopped breathing.
“They know where you sleep.”
A loud crash sounded upstairs.
Nicholas grabbed his gun.
Marco shouted into his radio.
Claire stared toward the ceiling.
Her room.
May you like
Someone screamed.
And every light in the mansion went out.
