Chapter 2 - THE GIRL IN THE RAIN
The silence in the ballroom was absolute.
I didn’t wait for Luca’s permission. I pushed past the armed guards, my black housekeeper’s uniform blending into a sea of designer tuxedos, and ran toward the grand foyer.
The heavy oak doors stood open. The Chicago rain poured in sheets against the marble steps.
Standing there, soaked to the bone, was a young woman in a faded denim jacket. She was shivering. Her dark hair clung to her pale cheeks.
But it was her eyes—my father’s eyes, bright and piercing—that made my breath leave my lungs.
“Maggie?” I whispered.
I took a step forward, my arms aching to pull her into my chest. To hold the child I had grieved for five thousand nights.
But Maggie took a sharp step back.
She held up her hand, her expression terrified and hard.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice cracking.
The reversal hit me like a physical blow. I thought my daughter had been stolen. I thought she would fall into my arms. But the look in her eyes wasn't relief. It was profound, deep-seated betrayal.
Answer One: Maggie survived the fire.
Luca Romano walked out of the ballroom, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene. Celeste trailed behind him, her mother weeping quietly into a silk handkerchief.
“Maggie, please,” I begged, dropping to my knees on the cold marble. “It’s Mom. I thought you died.”
“I know what you thought,” Maggie said bitterly. She reached into her jacket pocket. Her hand was trembling violently. “Because that’s what you were paid to think.”
Open Two: Who paid Eleanor, and why does Maggie believe her own mother sold her?
Maggie pulled out a heavily singed, half-burned photograph. She threw it onto the marble floor between us.
I picked it up with shaking hands.
It was a picture of me, taken fifteen years ago in a dimly lit office. I was accepting a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from a man whose face was cut off by the camera angle.
“I was six years old,” Maggie wept, the rain washing away her tears. “The woman who took me out of the fire showed me that picture. She told me you sold me to clear your gambling debts. She told me the fire was just a cover-up so the police wouldn't look for me.”
I stared at the photograph, the world spinning.
I didn't have gambling debts. I had medical debt. My husband had died of leukemia, leaving us drowning in bills. The man in the photo wasn't buying my child. He was giving me a predatory loan to keep us from being evicted.
“Maggie, no,” I sobbed. “That was a loan. I never sold you. I would have died for you!”
Luca stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the burned photograph in my hands. He didn't look at me. He looked at the background of the image.
“The desk in that picture,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper. “It’s solid mahogany with a brass lion’s head on the corner.”
Celeste’s mother gasped, backing toward the ballroom.
“That desk belonged to my father,” Luca said, turning slowly toward Celeste and her family. “My father gave you that loan, Eleanor. Which means my family took your daughter.”
Maggie looked at Luca, her jaw tight. She reached into her pocket one last time.
“Your family didn't just take me,” Maggie said softly.
She pulled out a heavy, antique silver pocket watch and held it up.
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“Your father raised me. He told me to keep this watch safe.” Maggie looked directly at Luca. “Hello, brother.”
TITLE: The Watch and the Will
