Chapter 2 - The Cost of Silence
Victoria stepped back into the dining room.
The heavy oak doors swung shut behind her with a dull, final thud.
The forty guests sitting around the grand Thanksgiving table seemed to stop breathing. Nobody reached for their wine. Nobody touched the silver cutlery.
Anthony didn't look at his former fiancée.
His eyes were locked on his eight-year-old daughter.
“Lily,” Anthony said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “Tell me exactly what Victoria said to you.”
Lily shrank back against her grandmother’s wheelchair.
“She said I was too loud,” Lily whispered, her small hands gripping Rosa’s wool blanket. “She said you were tired of me making messes, and that after the wedding, I was going to a special school where I couldn't bother you anymore.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
A muscle in his jaw feathered.
When he opened his eyes again, they were completely empty. And in the Mafia, an empty look from Anthony Marino was far more terrifying than a furious one.
He slowly turned his head toward Victoria.
“You forged my signature.”
Victoria lifted her chin, her red silk dress rustling as she took a step toward the table.
“I secured your legacy, Anthony,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial calm. “You are the head of the most powerful syndicate in New York. You cannot rule an empire while coddling a senile mother and a spoiled child.”
“I said,” Anthony repeated, stepping away from the table, “you forged my signature.”
“I had your lawyer draft the papers!” Victoria snapped, dropping her elegant facade. “Someone had to make the difficult decisions. Your mother is an embarrassment, and your daughter needs discipline!”
Rosa let out a soft, broken sob.
I stepped in front of the wheelchair, instinctively shielding the old woman and the little girl from Victoria’s venom.
“Mr. Marino,” I said, my voice shaking but clear in the silent room. “The notary stamp on these papers is dated yesterday. She was going to file them on Monday.”
Victoria’s eyes darted toward me.
“You stupid girl,” she hissed. “You think you’ve won something? You think you’ve saved them?”
She reached into her expensive leather handbag.
Half the men at the table—Anthony’s capos and lieutenants—instinctively reached inside their tailored jackets.
But Victoria didn't pull out a weapon.
She pulled out a delicate, tarnished silver rosary.
Anthony froze.
The color completely drained from his face.
I recognized the rosary. It was kept in a locked glass case in the master study. It had belonged to Elena, Anthony’s late wife. Lily’s mother.
“How did you get that?” Anthony demanded, his voice finally cracking.
“I didn't steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Victoria sneered. She let the silver beads dangle from her manicured fingers. “Elena gave this to me. Three days before she died.”
Anthony stepped forward. “Liar. She didn't let anyone in her hospital room at the end. Not even you.”
“She let me in,” Victoria said softly, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “Because she needed me to hide something. Something she didn't want her ruthless, criminal husband to ever find.”
Victoria looked directly at me.
“Isn't that right, Claire?”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I whispered.
Victoria laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound that echoed off the crystal chandeliers.
“Oh, please. Did you really think you got this job by accident? A twenty-seven-year-old maid with no high-end references, suddenly hired to clean the most secure mansion in the state?”
She squeezed the silver cross at the end of the rosary.
With a sharp click, the back of the crucifix popped open. It was a locket.
Victoria pulled out a tiny, folded photograph and tossed it onto the Thanksgiving table.
It landed right next to the carved turkey.
Anthony reached for it.
He unfolded the tiny square of paper.
His dark eyes scanned the image. Then, slowly, he looked up at me.
The betrayal in his gaze made my stomach turn into ice.
“Mr. Marino?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Anthony didn't speak. He simply turned the photograph around so I could see it.
It was an old Polaroid. Faded at the edges.
It showed a young woman in a hospital uniform, standing next to Elena Marino.
Elena was holding a newborn baby. Lily.
But the woman in the hospital uniform—the woman with her arm wrapped protectively around Anthony’s late wife—was someone I recognized immediately.
It was my mother.
“Your mother didn't just clean hotel rooms, did she, Claire?” Victoria whispered maliciously. “She was the hospice nurse who was alone with Elena the night she died. The night Elena supposedly had a fatal heart attack.”
I couldn't breathe.
My mother had never told me she worked for the Marino family.
“And now,” Victoria said, turning her triumphant gaze back to Anthony, “you have to ask yourself why the daughter of the woman who watched your wife die suddenly infiltrated your home.”
May you like
Anthony stared at me, the forged boarding school documents completely forgotten in his hand.
“Claire,” he whispered. “What did your mother do to my wife?”
