Chapter 10 - THE GHOST IN THE FLOORBOARDS
I stared at the faded blue ink on the back of the train ticket, the edges of the yellowed paper trembling between my fingers.
Margaret Collins.
Run before he wakes.
The profound peace I had felt just moments ago shattered, replaced by a cold, creeping dread that sank heavy into my stomach.
Why was my mother’s maiden name written on a thirty-year-old train ticket hidden inside the Russo patriarch’s favorite coat?
I looked down at my mother. She was sleeping soundly in the luxurious medical bed, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor the only sound in the east wing suite. Her face was relaxed, the harsh lines of a lifetime of poverty momentarily smoothed away.
She had always told me my father, the accountant, died in a hit-and-run when I was six. But she had never talked about her life before I was born. Every time I asked about her twenties, she changed the subject, her eyes clouding with a familiar, silent terror.
“Anna?”
I jumped, hastily shoving the ticket back into the pocket of the heavy brown coat.
Evelyn stood in the doorway, leaning slightly on her cane, a fresh cup of tea in her hand. She looked exhausted, but the matriarchal fire had returned fully to her posture.
“You should sleep, sweetheart,” Evelyn said softly, stepping into the room. “The nurses are stationed right outside in the hall. She’s safe.”
“I’m okay,” I lied, my voice slightly breathless. I stood up, gripping the edge of the blanket. “Mrs. Russo… can I ask you a question?”
Evelyn smiled warmly. “You can ask me anything, Anna. And please, call me Evelyn.”
I hesitated. If I brought this up, it could destroy the fragile peace we had just fought so hard to secure. But the words on that ticket were burning a hole in my pocket.
“Did my mother… did she know your husband?” I asked cautiously.
Evelyn paused, the teacup freezing halfway to her lips. The warm smile on her face faltered for a fraction of a second before she carefully set the cup down on the bedside table.
“Margaret?” Evelyn asked, her tone suddenly cautious. “Why would you ask that, dear?”
“Because,” I swallowed hard, deciding to take the leap, “she used to clean office buildings downtown. Before the stroke. I thought maybe she worked in one of Mr. Russo’s buildings.”
Evelyn stared at my mother’s sleeping face. A shadow passed over the older woman’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, or perhaps, profound sorrow.
“My husband employed many people, Anna,” Evelyn said quietly, not looking at me. “But I didn’t know all their names. The syndicate’s business was kept strictly separate from the family home.”
She was lying.
I had lived in this house for fourteen months. I knew Evelyn’s tells. When she lied to Scarlett about liking the wedding centerpieces, she always broke eye contact and touched the pearls at her throat.
Evelyn’s hand was resting firmly on her pearl necklace.
“Of course,” I whispered, stepping back. “I was just curious.”
Evelyn gave me a tight, polite nod. “Get some rest, Anna.”
She turned and walked out of the room, her cane clicking softly against the hardwood floor.
I waited until the door clicked shut. Then, I reached into the coat pocket and pulled out the train ticket again.
I needed to know the truth. And my mother couldn't speak to tell me.
I remembered the rusted safe deposit key Evelyn had used to stab Scarlett’s knee. She said it belonged to her husband’s private vault beneath the basilica. But before we left the catacombs, Matteo had mentioned that his father kept his most personal, private ledgers not in the church, but here.
In his old study.
The study that had been locked and untouched since his death ten years ago.
I slipped out of my mother’s room, wrapping the heavy coat tightly around myself. The mansion was quiet. Matteo’s men were patrolling the perimeter outside, but the interior hallways were empty.
I crept up the grand staircase to the second floor, down the long gallery of oil paintings, until I reached the heavy oak double doors at the end of the hall.
The patriarch’s study.
The door was locked. But over the last year, I had learned every quirk of this ancient house. The wood frame on the left door had warped slightly from humidity. If you pressed hard enough near the hinges, the latch wouldn’t hold.
I leaned my shoulder against the oak, pressing my weight into the frame, and turned the brass knob.
With a soft click, the door swung open.
The study smelled of stale cigar smoke, leather, and decades of secrets. Heavy velvet curtains blocked the moonlight, but I didn’t dare turn on the overhead chandelier. I pulled out my phone and used the flashlight.
The room was perfectly preserved. A massive mahogany desk sat in the center, flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
I walked over to the desk, shining the light over the leather blotter.
If my mother was connected to Matteo’s father, the proof had to be here.
I opened the desk drawers. Empty stationary. Old fountain pens. A humidor dried out years ago.
I walked around the desk, shining the light on the Persian rug. The corner of the rug was slightly folded, the heavy fabric stiff with age.
I pulled the rug back.
Beneath it, the hardwood floorboards looked perfectly normal. But as I crouched down, I noticed one board had a tiny, almost invisible scratch near the edge, as if someone had pried it up repeatedly.
I dug my fingernails into the seam of the wood. It was tight.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy silver vault key, and wedged it into the crack. With a sharp twist, the floorboard popped loose.
I lifted it away.
Hidden in the shallow cavity between the joists was a small, locked, fireproof metal box.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I lifted the box out. The lock was rusted, a simple three-digit combination dial.
I thought about the train ticket. The date.
I spun the dial to the month and year printed on the faded paper: 0-8-9-6.
The lock clicked open.
I took a deep breath, opened the lid, and shone my phone’s flashlight inside.
There were no ledgers. No syndicate money. No weapons.
Inside the box were dozens of unopened envelopes, all addressed in Matteo’s father’s handwriting.
But they weren’t addressed to Evelyn.
They were addressed to Margaret Collins. My mother.
My hands shook violently as I picked up the top envelope. It was unsealed. I pulled out the crisp, white parchment inside.
It wasn’t a love letter.
It was a legally binding trust document, notarized and stamped by a federal judge.
I read the first paragraph, and the breath completely left my lungs.
“I, Antonio Russo, being of sound mind, do hereby transfer full and irrevocable ownership of Russo Legitimate Holdings—comprising the downtown commercial real estate portfolio, the shipping lines, and the legitimate banking assets, valued at eight hundred million dollars—to Margaret Collins, to be held in absolute secrecy until her daughter, Anna, reaches her twenty-sixth birthday.”
I dropped the paper as if it were on fire.
Eight hundred million dollars.
My mother wasn’t just a maid who got caught in the crossfire. She was the sole legal owner of the Russo family’s entire legitimate empire. We weren't poor. My father hadn't died an accountant for the mob—he had died trying to protect this document.
“You weren’t supposed to find that for another three months, Anna.”
May you like
I spun around, a scream dying in my throat.
Standing in the shadows of the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on the metal box in my hands, was Matteo.
