Chapter 1 - The Little Girl in the Forbidden Study
“You look mad!”
My three-year-old daughter folded her arms and stared straight at Vincent Castalano.
On his desk lay a black leather file with my name written across the corner.
A faded photograph was sticking out of it.
The woman in that photograph was my mother.
And suddenly I knew Mia had walked into something much bigger than a forbidden room.
The coffee cup was already shaking in my hand when I reached the doorway.
Ten minutes earlier, my biggest fear had been getting fired.
That seemed almost funny now.
Almost.
“Mia.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Every person in the study turned toward me.
Mia’s serious little face immediately brightened.
“Hi, Mommy.”
I wished I could disappear.
Vincent Castalano did not move.
Neither did Renzo Moretti, his chief of staff, who stood near the enormous windows with a tablet pressed against his chest.
Two members of the household security staff remained near the fireplace.
Nobody spoke.
My daughter was standing directly in front of the one man every employee in that mansion knew not to disturb.
And she was making his face.
Not approximately.
Exactly.
Vincent lowered his eyebrows.
Mia lowered hers.
Vincent pressed his mouth into a hard line.
Mia pressed hers into a tiny pink line.
He tilted his head.
She tilted hers.
I watched in horror.
One of the security men coughed into his fist.
Renzo suddenly became fascinated by his tablet.
Vincent slowly raised his right eyebrow.
Mia raised hers.
Or tried.
Both eyebrows went up instead.
The corner of Vincent’s mouth moved.
For one astonishing second, I thought he was going to smile.
Then Mia pointed at him.
“You do that face a lot.”
Renzo made a strangled sound.
Vincent turned his eyes toward him.
Renzo straightened.
“Something in my throat, sir.”
“Apparently.”
I hurried into the room.
“Mr. Castalano, I am so sorry.”
Mia looked at me as if I were the one behaving strangely.
“My sitter canceled this morning,” I continued. “I had nobody else, and she was supposed to stay with me downstairs. I only left her for a few minutes. This will never happen again.”
Vincent raised one finger.
I stopped talking.
He looked at Mia.
Then something happened that surprised everyone.
Vincent crouched.
The movement itself seemed impossible.
Vincent Castalano was the kind of man people stood up for. He didn't lower himself to anybody.
But now his expensive black trousers creased as he came down until his eyes were level with my daughter's.
Mia examined him carefully.
“You’re very big,” she announced.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You have too much hair.”
Renzo looked away.
Vincent’s eyebrow rose again.
Mia copied it.
“Do you always copy people?” he asked.
“No.”
“Just me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mia considered this.
“Because you look funny.”
This time somebody behind me actually coughed.
I closed my eyes.
“Mia.”
“What?”
“We don't tell Mr. Castalano he looks funny.”
“Why?”
Because I enjoy having a paycheck.
I did not say that.
Instead, I reached for her hand.
“We need to go.”
Vincent stood.
The warmth disappeared from the room almost instantly.
“Wait.”
I froze.
His gaze had moved past me.
To the desk.
That was when I noticed the file.
Black leather.
Several documents.
A photograph.
And handwriting across the upper corner.
ELENA RAMIREZ.
My name.
For a moment, I wondered if this was simply my employment record.
Then I saw the photograph.
A young woman stood outside what looked like a hospital.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A familiar smile.
I had seen that picture before.
It had been in my grandmother’s apartment when I was a child.
“Where did you get that?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Vincent looked at me.
Renzo stopped pretending to work.
“What?” Vincent asked.
I stepped toward the desk.
“The photograph.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I had spent eight months working in his house. I had learned that with Vincent Castalano, slightly was enough.
“You recognize her?”
“That’s my mother.”
Silence.
Mia tugged on my hand.
“Grandma?”
I swallowed.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
My mother, Sofia Ramirez, had died when I was nine.
At least, that was what I had always been told.
She had worked constantly when I was little. Hotels. Restaurants. Private houses. Whatever kept food on the table.
Then one night she hadn't come home.
My grandmother told me there had been an accident.
I was too young to understand the details.
Years later, whenever I asked questions, Grandma would say only that remembering wouldn't bring Sofia back.
Eventually I stopped asking.
But I had never forgotten that photograph.
“Why do you have a picture of my mother?” I asked.
Vincent didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked toward Renzo.
“When did this arrive?”
“Seven thirty this morning.”
“From whom?”
“No return information.”
Something cold moved through me.
“Arrive?”
Renzo set down his tablet.
“A package was delivered for Mr. Castalano.”
“And my mother's photograph was inside?”
“Yes.”
My mouth went dry.
Vincent picked up the photograph carefully.
On the back was something written in blue ink.
He looked at it.
Then at me.
“What?”
He turned it around.
Three words had been written there.
ASK ELENA RAMIREZ.
I stared at them.
“That isn't possible.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't know anything.”
Vincent watched me for several seconds.
I hated how exposed I felt beneath that gaze.
“Who knew your mother worked in private service?” he asked.
“Everybody who knew her.”
“Did she ever work here?”
“No.”
The answer came automatically.
Then uncertainty followed.
My mother had worked in many houses.
I had been a child.
“Not that I know of,” I corrected.
Vincent placed the photograph on the desk.
Mia had become bored with adult mysteries.
She spotted a glass bowl of wrapped candies.
“Can I have one?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Vincent said simultaneously.
Mia looked delighted.
I stared at him.
He gestured toward the bowl.
She selected a strawberry candy.
“Thank you, Angry Man.”
Renzo turned completely toward the window.
Vincent looked at my daughter.
Then at me.
“Does she call everyone what she thinks?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I like her.”
That sentence might have shocked me more than anything else.
Vincent returned his attention to the file.
“There was something else in the package.”
He removed a yellowed envelope.
My heart began beating harder.
My mother's handwriting was unmistakable.
I hadn't seen it in twenty years.
But I knew it.
Sofia used to write my name on brown paper lunch bags.
She made the E too large.
She curved the final A underneath the other letters.
The same handwriting appeared across this envelope.
VINCENT CASTALANO.
I whispered, “She knew you?”
“No.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen when your mother died.”
That stopped me.
He couldn't have employed her.
Vincent opened the envelope.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it says something underneath my name.”
He turned the envelope.
There, in smaller letters, my mother had written:
ONLY OPEN THIS WITH MY DAUGHTER PRESENT.
My knees nearly weakened.
“That makes no sense.”
Vincent's expression remained calm.
“The package was delivered this morning. You happened to bring your daughter to work for the first time. She happened to walk into this study.”
“You think I planned this?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
“That concerns me more.”
Renzo stepped forward.
“Vincent.”
Something in his voice changed the room.
“What?”
Renzo pointed toward the envelope.
“Look at the seal.”
Vincent turned it over.
There was a tiny handwritten date beside the flap.
October 14.
Twenty years ago.
Three days before my mother died.
I stopped breathing.
Mia unwrapped her candy.
The ordinary little sound seemed impossibly loud.
“Mommy?”
I looked down.
“Are you sad?”
“No, baby.”
It was a lie.
I was terrified.
Vincent placed the envelope on the desk.
“We should discuss this privately.”
I looked at Renzo and the security men.
“You mean without them?”
“I mean without your daughter.”
“No.”
He studied me.
“Mia stays with me.”
“Elena—”
“I came into this room expecting you to fire me because my daughter wandered away. Instead, there's a twenty-year-old letter from my dead mother addressed to you and telling you not to open it unless I'm here.”
My voice trembled despite my effort to control it.
“So Mia stays.”
Vincent stared at me.
Then nodded.
“Fair enough.”
He reached for the envelope.
His finger slid beneath the old paper.
Renzo's tablet suddenly chimed.
He glanced down.
The color drained from his face.
Vincent stopped.
“What?”
Renzo didn't answer.
“Renzo.”
He turned the tablet around.
A security camera feed filled the screen.
The east gate.
A black sedan had stopped outside.
A woman was standing beside it.
Her face wasn't visible.
She held something toward the camera.
A photograph.
Renzo enlarged the image.
My breath caught.
It was a photograph of me and Mia leaving our apartment that morning.
Written across the bottom were five words.
DON'T OPEN SOFIA'S LETTER.
Vincent's entire expression hardened.
“Lock the gates.”
The security men moved immediately.
Mia squeezed my fingers.
“Mommy?”
I couldn't answer.
Vincent looked toward the sealed letter.
Then toward the security monitor.
The woman outside slowly lifted her head toward the camera.
Renzo enlarged the image again.
I recognized her.
I hadn't seen that face since I was nine years old.
May you like
The envelope slipped from my hand.
Because the woman standing outside Vincent Castalano's gate looked exactly like my mother.
