Chapter 3 - THE VINTAGE MUSIC BOX
"Do not make a sound," I breathed against Sofia's ear.
She nodded, her wide green eyes filled with tears. She was so small, so innocent, dragged into a world of dark secrets and violent men.
The doorknob stopped rattling.
Silence stretched out in the kitchen, thick and agonizing.
I waited, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"You think a deadbolt will stop me?" Silas's voice floated through the heavy oak door. "I helped Adrian install this security system. I know the overrides."
A small electronic beep echoed from the keypad outside.
He was entering the code.
I panicked. I looked around the kitchen for a weapon. A knife, a heavy pan, anything.
My eyes landed on the fire extinguisher mounted on the far wall.
"Sofia," I whispered, pointing to the walk-in pantry. "Go inside. Hide behind the flour bins. Do not come out until your father or I tell you to. Understand?"
"I'm scared," she whimpered.
"I know," I said, kissing the top of her head. "But you are a DeLuca. You are brave. Go."
She scrambled across the floor and slipped into the dark pantry.
The keypad beeped again. A green light flashed under the door crack.
The deadbolt clicked open.
I grabbed the heavy red fire extinguisher off the wall, struggling with the weight because of my bruised left hand. I stood beside the door frame, pressing my back against the wall, holding my breath.
The door swung inward.
Silas stepped into the kitchen.
He was wearing a tailored Italian suit, looking entirely out of place in the sterile, bright cooking space. In his right hand, he held a suppressed pistol.
"Emily?" he called out softly, stepping further inside. "Don't make this difficult. I just want the torn photograph. Hand it over, and you can walk away."
I gripped the metal cylinder tighter.
"Why do you have a picture of my mother?" I demanded from my hiding spot.
Silas stopped. He didn't turn around. A cold smile spread across his face.
"Because your mother didn't die in an accident, Emily," Silas said smoothly. "She was collateral damage. A loose end."
My blood turned to ice.
"What are you talking about?"
"She used to clean this house, too," Silas said, turning slowly toward my voice. "Before you were even born. Before Adrian took over. She found something she shouldn't have. Something hidden in the west wing."
He stepped closer to the island.
"I was the one who told the old boss about her snooping," Silas confessed, his voice devoid of any guilt. "I was just a soldier back then. Earning my stripes. When I saw you walk in here a year ago, applying for the same job... I couldn't believe the poetry of it."
Answer One: My mother's death wasn't an accident. She was murdered by the DeLuca family, and Silas was involved.
Open Two: What did my mother find, and why did Silas need the photograph back?
"Where is the girl?" Silas asked, raising the gun. "Sofia knows where it is. She found it yesterday. That's why I went into her room."
"She didn't find anything," I lied.
"Yes, she did," Silas snapped, losing his composure. "She found the vintage music box. The one Adrian's wife gave her before she died."
My mind raced.
Sofia had shown me a beautiful, wooden music box a week ago. She kept it on the top shelf of her closet. She told me it played her mother's favorite song.
"I checked the closet," Silas said, pacing. "It's gone. Where did she hide it?"
"I don't know," I said, stepping out from behind the wall, the fire extinguisher raised.
Silas laughed. It was a cruel, dismissive sound.
"Put that down, housekeeper. You're out of your league."
He leveled the gun at my chest.
"Tell me where the music box is, or you die exactly like your mother did. Bleeding on the pavement."
I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the shot.
"Hey!" a small voice yelled.
Silas spun around.
Sofia was standing in the doorway of the pantry.
In her hands, she held the ornate, wooden music box.
"Is this what you want?" the nine-year-old asked, her voice trembling but defiant.
"Yes," Silas breathed, his eyes wide with greed. He took a step toward the child. "Give it to me, Sofia."
"No!" I screamed, lunging forward.
But I didn't need to.
Before Silas could take another step, a massive shadow filled the kitchen doorway.
It was Adrian.
He didn't yell. He didn't issue a warning.
He simply raised his own weapon and fired.
The gunshot deafened the room.
Silas screamed, dropping his gun as his right kneecap shattered. He collapsed onto the marble floor, writhing in agony.
Adrian walked slowly into the room, his face an absolute mask of fury.
He stepped over Silas, ignoring the man's screams, and went straight to Sofia. He swept his daughter into his arms, burying his face in her hair.
"I've got you," Adrian whispered fiercely. "Daddy's here."
I slumped against the counter, my knees shaking uncontrollably.
Adrian looked up at me. "Are you hurt, Emily?"
"No," I choked out. "I'm okay."
Adrian turned his cold gaze down to Silas, who was clutching his bleeding leg.
"You touched my daughter," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a terrifying register. "You threatened my family."
"It's not what you think, Adrian!" Silas begged, coughing. "I had to! They made me!"
Adrian pressed the barrel of his gun against Silas's forehead.
"Who is they?"
Silas looked up, tears of pain streaming down his face.
"The music box," Silas gasped. "Open the music box, Adrian. See for yourself."
Adrian frowned. He reached over and took the small wooden box from Sofia's hands.
He opened the lid.
The delicate mechanism began to play a soft, haunting lullaby.
But there was no ballerina inside.
Sitting in the velvet compartment was a heavy, tarnished silver key.
And wrapped around the key was a piece of paper.
Adrian pulled the paper out and unfolded it.
I watched the color drain completely from the mafia boss's face.
A man who feared nothing suddenly looked terrified.
He looked at me, then at the paper, then back to me.
"Emily," Adrian whispered.
"What is it?" I asked, stepping closer.
Adrian turned the paper around so I could see it.
It was a birth certificate.
Issued thirty-one years ago.
My birth certificate.
But the name of the father wasn't the man who had raised me.
The name printed in stark black ink was Elias DeLuca.
May you like
Adrian’s late father.
"You aren't just my housekeeper, Emily," Adrian said, his voice breaking. "You're my sister."
