Chapter 1 - The Money She Wouldn't Touch
Emma pulled the yellow blanket over the sleeping man's knees and whispered:
"You're cold."
Lorenzo Duca opened his eyes and looked past her at the envelope containing five thousand dollars.
Then he saw the tiny bracelet hanging from Emma's fist.
The initials engraved inside were D.R.
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
This wasn't about the money anymore.
I stood in the library doorway with silver polish still drying on my fingers.
For one impossible second, nobody moved.
Emma was three years old, burning with fever, and standing beside the most dangerous man I had ever met.
Lorenzo Duca sat in the black leather chair beside the fireplace. His dark navy suit looked almost black in the firelight. His white shirt was open at the throat, exposing the edge of the tattoos that climbed his neck. One scarred hand rested on the arm of the chair.
My daughter's yellow blanket covered his knees.
And beside him, on the walnut table, was enough cash to keep Emma and me alive for months.
Five thousand dollars.
Hundred-dollar bills.
Half inside an envelope.
Close enough for Emma to take.
"Emma."
Her head snapped toward me.
"Mama."
I crossed the burgundy rug so fast that my shoe caught the edge.
I dropped beside her and pressed my palm against her forehead.
Still burning.
"Did you touch anything?"
She blinked.
"What?"
"The table. The envelope. The money."
Her forehead wrinkled.
"No."
"Emma."
"I didn't."
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
"Tell me the truth."
Her lower lip trembled.
"I am telling."
I immediately hated myself.
Emma had never learned how to lie convincingly. When she stole cookies, she confessed before I noticed. When she drew on the kitchen wall, she brought me the crayon.
But fear had taken over.
Because that wasn't just money.
It was Lorenzo Duca's money.
I had worked in his Beacon Hill mansion for eleven months, and in eleven months I had learned three rules.
Never enter his office without permission.
Never ask about the men who arrived after midnight.
And never touch anything belonging to Lorenzo Duca.
Emma looked toward the chair.
"He was cold."
I followed her eyes.
The yellow blanket.
My chest tightened.
Daniel had bought it three days after Emma was born.
He had walked into Massachusetts General carrying the ridiculous little yellow wool blanket as if he had personally discovered gold.
"Every baby needs one absurdly expensive thing her father can regret later," he'd said.
Two years after Daniel died, Emma still slept with it every night.
And now she had given it away.
"Why did you put it on him?"
Emma pointed toward Lorenzo's hand.
"His hand was cold."
I looked.
Large fingers.
Two scarred knuckles.
Ink disappearing beneath his cuff.
Emma had apparently touched the hand of a man grown adults avoided looking at directly.
Then the leather chair creaked.
My entire body went rigid.
Lorenzo moved his head.
Slowly.
His eyes opened.
Steel gray.
Completely alert.
I knew instantly that he had not just awakened.
He had been listening.
"Mr. Duca."
Emma leaned against my leg.
Lorenzo looked at her.
Then at me.
Then at the money.
His expression revealed nothing.
"I can explain," I said.
"I'm sure you can."
His voice was quiet.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
I reached for the blanket.
"I'm sorry."
Lorenzo's gaze followed my hands.
I pulled the yellow wool away from his knees.
Underneath it, a dark damp patch marked the leather.
Snow.
Emma must have dragged the blanket near the window earlier.
Lorenzo touched the damp spot with two fingers.
"This chair was made in Florence."
My stomach sank.
"Yes, sir."
"The leather doesn't enjoy water."
"I'm sorry."
"Restoration will cost five hundred dollars."
Five hundred.
My mind immediately began calculating.
Rent.
Electricity.
Emma's medicine.
Groceries.
The pediatric appointment I had postponed twice.
"I don't have five hundred dollars today."
"I didn't ask whether you had it."
My throat tightened.
"Take it from my wages."
"All of it?"
"If that's what it costs."
His eyes stayed on mine.
"I can work weekends."
"Sophia."
I froze.
He knew my name.
Not "the housekeeper."
Not "Miss."
Sophia.
"Whatever it costs," I said, "let it cost me."
Emma looked up at me.
"Not her."
Something changed in Lorenzo's face.
Barely.
Then Emma stepped forward.
I caught her shoulder.
"Emma."
She pulled gently away.
There was something heartbreaking about the calmness she sometimes showed when I was afraid.
Daniel's death had done that to her.
Children weren't supposed to understand grief.
Emma did.
She reached into the pocket of her red dress.
Her fingers searched inside.
Then she opened her hand.
A small silver bracelet rested against her palm.
My breath caught.
"Emma, no."
Daniel's bracelet.
He had worn it for years.
It wasn't expensive.
The clasp had been repaired twice. The silver was scratched. The engraving on the inside had faded.
But after the accident, the hospital had returned it to me in a plastic bag with Daniel's wallet and wedding ring.
When Emma turned two, she found it in my dresser.
"Daddy?"
I'd told her yes.
After that, she carried it everywhere.
Emma walked toward Lorenzo.
He watched her.
She held out the bracelet.
"You can have Daddy's."
Lorenzo didn't move.
Emma pushed her hand closer.
"For the chair."
"No."
The word came from me.
Too loudly.
Emma turned.
"Baby, that's Daddy's."
"You need money."
Her simplicity destroyed me.
"I'll handle it."
"But you were scared."
Silence filled the library.
I became painfully aware that Lorenzo was watching us.
Emma turned back to him.
"You can sell it."
Lorenzo stared at the bracelet.
Then slowly extended his hand.
Emma dropped it into his palm.
I almost stopped her.
Almost.
But something in Lorenzo's expression held me still.
He turned the bracelet over.
His thumb moved across the scratched silver.
Then stopped.
There was engraving inside.
D.R.
Daniel Russo.
My husband's initials.
Lorenzo's face changed.
Not dramatically.
His eyes simply became still.
Too still.
"Where did you get this?"
Emma pointed toward me.
"Daddy."
Lorenzo looked at me.
"Your husband's name."
I swallowed.
"Daniel."
"Last name."
"Russo."
The fire cracked behind him.
For the first time since I had entered the room, Lorenzo Duca looked genuinely shaken.
"Daniel Russo?"
"Yes."
He stood.
Emma backed toward me.
Lorenzo was taller than I remembered. Perhaps because I'd rarely been this close.
"How did he die?"
My stomach twisted.
"Car accident."
"When?"
"Two years ago."
"Where?"
"Near Quincy."
He closed his fist around the bracelet.
"Who told you it was an accident?"
I stared at him.
"The police."
"Which police?"
"What does that mean?"
"Who investigated?"
"I don't remember."
"You should."
Anger pushed through my fear.
"My husband died. I had a one-year-old child. I was identifying his body and arranging a funeral. Forgive me if I didn't memorize badge numbers."
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked down at Emma.
Her teeth chattered.
Lorenzo noticed.
"So did I."
"What?"
"I didn't memorize the badge number either."
Cold moved through me.
"What are you talking about?"
He walked to the table.
Not toward the money.
Toward his phone.
He picked it up and typed one message.
"Mr. Duca."
He ignored me.
"How did you know Daniel?"
Nothing.
"Lorenzo."
That made him look at me.
I had never called him by his first name.
"You said his name like you knew him."
"I knew of him."
"From where?"
He glanced at Emma.
"Not in front of your daughter."
"My daughter is the reason I'm standing here."
"Sophia."
"No. You don't get to say my dead husband's name and then tell me to leave."
His eyes hardened.
For a moment I remembered exactly who I was speaking to.
Then Emma coughed.
A dry, painful cough.
Everything stopped.
I crouched beside her.
"Baby?"
"I'm tired."
I touched her forehead again.
Too hot.
Lorenzo stepped closer.
"How high?"
"One hundred and two this morning."
"And you brought her to work?"
The judgment in his voice struck something raw.
"Her sitter got sick."
"You should have stayed home."
"And lost my job?"
He said nothing.
"Some of us don't get to stay home because life becomes inconvenient."
His expression shifted.
I regretted the words immediately.
But I didn't take them back.
Lorenzo reached for the envelope.
I tensed.
He lifted it.
Then placed it in a drawer.
He locked the drawer.
Emma hadn't touched one dollar.
The test was over.
Except apparently it had never been the real test.
Lorenzo looked at the bracelet again.
"You said Daniel died near Quincy."
"Yes."
"Route 3?"
My mouth went dry.
"How did you know?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward a bookshelf.
He pressed something beneath the wooden molding.
A section of shelving released with a soft click.
Behind it was a narrow safe.
I stared.
Lorenzo entered a code.
The safe opened.
Inside were folders.
Photographs.
Cash.
And a black metal box.
He removed the box.
"What is that?"
He placed it on the desk.
Emma leaned against my leg.
Lorenzo unlocked it.
Inside were several objects sealed in plastic evidence bags.
A watch.
A key.
A photograph.
And a broken piece of metal.
Lorenzo removed the photograph.
He placed it on the table.
My knees nearly gave way.
Daniel.
My husband.
Alive.
Standing beside Lorenzo Duca.
The picture had been taken years earlier.
Daniel was smiling.
Lorenzo wasn't.
But there was no mistaking either man.
I picked it up with shaking fingers.
"No."
Emma looked at the picture.
"Daddy."
I couldn't breathe.
"You knew him."
Lorenzo's voice remained low.
"Yes."
"You lied."
"I said I knew of him."
"That's lying."
"Not exactly."
"To me it is."
Emma reached toward the photograph.
I pulled it away before she could touch it.
"When was this?"
"Four years ago."
"Why were you together?"
Lorenzo looked toward the library door.
As though checking whether someone might be listening.
Then back at me.
"Your husband worked for me."
The room seemed to tilt.
"No."
"He did."
"Daniel was an accountant."
"Yes."
"For a construction company."
"That company belonged to me."
I stared at him.
Daniel had never mentioned Lorenzo Duca.
Not once.
"What did he do?"
"At first?"
Lorenzo paused.
"Accounting."
"And later?"
Lorenzo's eyes lowered toward the bracelet.
"He found something."
"What?"
"Something he wasn't supposed to find."
My fingers went cold.
"Did you kill my husband?"
Emma was standing beside me.
I regretted asking immediately.
But the question had escaped.
Lorenzo's expression became frighteningly calm.
"No."
"How am I supposed to believe you?"
"You shouldn't."
The answer surprised me.
He continued.
"Not yet."
A knock came from the library door.
Three slow knocks.
Lorenzo's attention snapped toward it.
He closed the metal box.
"Who is that?"
He didn't answer.
The handle turned.
A tall man in a charcoal coat entered.
He looked at Lorenzo.
Then me.
Then Emma.
His face drained of color when he saw the bracelet.
"Lorenzo."
"What?"
The man's eyes remained on my daughter.
"We have a problem."
"What problem?"
"The Russo file."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"What about it?"
The man swallowed.
"It disappeared this morning."
Lorenzo's face hardened.
"From where?"
"The archive."
I stepped forward.
"What Russo file?"
Neither man answered me.
Then Lorenzo's phone vibrated.
He looked down.
One message.
Whatever he read changed him instantly.
He locked the library door.
"Lorenzo?"
He raised his eyes toward me.
"Take Emma."
"Why?"
"Now."
Someone knocked again.
Not from the hallway.
From the private door behind the bookshelves.
Three slow knocks.
Lorenzo reached inside his jacket.
May you like
The hidden door began to open.
And someone on the other side whispered my dead husband's name.
